


The Veiled Woman

by ymaface



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-25 13:07:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 58,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymaface/pseuds/ymaface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Sansa had accepted the Hounds offer to escape? She leaves the South and starts a new life in Braavos with her faithful sworn shield. Sansa/Sandor. Book spoilers<br/>Warning: Lots of pent of angst and little pay off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this over on FFnet. Warning: This won't turn out like the usual SanSan fics...I see them more as an emotional ship than a romantic one so lots of pent of angst and little pay off. Hopefully realistic!  
> The title comes from this passage: "Even the Veiled Lady was beautiful, though only those she took as lovers ever saw her face." The Veiled Lady was a real courtesan of Braavos, along with The Poetess, the Moonshadow and the Merling Queen. I read the passage and thought how interesting it would be to make Sansa that woman...after all, overt is covert. Hiding in plain sight, yada yada.  
> Anyway - Enjoy! Suggestions are always welcome.

 

The fire...he had to get away from it. Sandor Clegane was already somewhat drunk and this only further fuelled his fear of the flames. The burnt side of his face prickled and he remembered that awful night so long ago. How strong Gregor's grip had been as he held Sandor's face above the fire. How loudly Sandor had screamed and yet he simply could not break free. His tears had dripped into the flames along with half of his face. Sandor was not afraid of anything except fire; give him a man to gut, a woman to fuck, or a child to run down and he could do it without flinching...but fire, especially this sort of wildfire, was different. So this is why he fled into the safety of the castle whilst Baratheon's army attacked King's Landing and Joffrey's defences retorted with the use of wildfire. "That bastard Imp," he murmured as he wandered the abandoned castle halls. The women and youngsters were no doubt hiding in their chambers whilst every man able to fight was outside. He had the run of the place...

He had to get away from King's Landing. If Tyrion or Joffrey found him he'd be executed for being a yellow bellied turncoat – not that he was particularly bothered by that. If anyone raised a sword to him he'd kill them whether Knight, Lord or King. He thought about heading to the stables and stealing a horse before the gates could be closed...but he needed to sober up. Then an idea suddenly struck him. The little bird...He would find her first.

That little bird; so beautiful and yet so beyond his reach. Or at least she had been...

He stumbled up towards her chamber and when he arrived he found the door open. He inspected inside her cage but it looked as though she'd fled already. Disappointment poisoned his belly until he saw her cloak folded over the bed. She would not have left the castle without that.

So the Hound waited. He fell onto her bed to rest and to try and stop the world from spinning. He could feel bile rise up in his throat but thankfully managed to keep it down. Her pillows and sheets were made from the finest silks and they felt so soft against his coarse skin. It didn't seem right somehow that such softness should be allowed to touch his disfigured face. He could smell her sweet scent all around him; lemon, sweat, soap and something flowery. He imagined her lying where he was now – her body so small in comparison with his. This was where she dreamed about her fairytale knights...where she clutched at the sheets during bad dreams, where she cried into the pillow. He wondered if she'd flowered onto the silky sheets yet. She was such a beauty that half the court was mad for her and was watching hungrily as her body slowly matured. She still wore the dresses of her childhood and her breasts had begun to strain against the bodices. Her skirts were always floaty but he could imagine that her hips were widening too.

He breathed in deeply, inhaling the scent of her hair from the pillow. He now imagined her lying on top of him, bending over in front of him...or better yet underneath him. She was such a little lady that the only way fitting would be to take her from above...she would not know any other way. But take her hard he would. He'd wanted her for long. For so long had she been unattainable. Fuck Joffrey and his betrothal; he would not know what to do with such a prize. The Hound would make her his.

He then heard quick light footsteps and knew she was back. She didn't notice him because it was dark and she rushed straight over to the window. Sandor got to his feet quietly. "Lady." She was whimpering – scared of the horrible fighting around the castle. She behaved so much like a child...

Sandor grabbed her wrist and just as quickly clamped a hand over her mouth. "Little bird. I knew you would come." He could hear her breath become haggard and knew she was scared senseless. Her entire body had frozen at his touch. "If you scream I'll kill you. Believe that." He chuckled – his speech was slurred from drink and he could only dimly make out her face in the darkness. The only light came from the wicked fires outside. "Don't you want to ask who's winning the battle, little bird?"

"Who?" Sansa whispered.

"I only know who's lost. Me. Bloody dwarf. Should have killed him. Years ago."

"He's dead, they say."

"Dead? No, bugger that. I don't want him dead." He shook his head; this was not what he wanted to talk about. "I want him burned. If the gods are good, they'll burn him, but I won't be here to see. I'm going."

"Going?" Sandor felt her struggle against his grip but held tight. His arm snaked around her waist; holding her still easily.

"The little bird repeats whatever she hears. Going, yes."

"Where will you go?"

"Away from here. Away from the fires. Go out the Iron Gate, I suppose. North somewhere, anywhere."

"You won't get out," Sansa said, uncertain. "The queen's closed up Maegor's, and the city gates are shut as well."

"Not to me. I have the white cloak. And I have this." He nodded at his sword. "The man who tries to stop me is a dead man. Unless he's on fire." He laughed bitterly. There was a flash of something outside and for a second Sansa's face was illuminated in the golden glow. He had expected to see her looking frightened and in tears, he'd seen the expression so many times, but he hadn't realised how close she was...he saw her wet eyelashes and that she'd been biting down on her pink lip. They were only several inches away from each other. He knew his breathing had become drawn and hated himself for it.

"Why did you come here?"

"You promised me a song, little bird. Have you forgotten?"

"I can't," she said. "Let me go, you're scaring me."

"Everything scares you. Look at me. Look at me," He reached out and grabbed hold of her pointed chin instead, forcing her to look up at him. He wet his lips. "I could keep you safe," he rasped. "They're all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them."

He peered down at her and saw the flicker of revulsion pass across her face. He felt anger rise up inside his chest. He could bend her over the bed at any second and rip her maidenhood out of her. He preferred her to be frightened than to see this.

"Still can't bear to look, can you?" He gave her arm a hard wrench and shoved her down onto the bed. He knelt over her: his dagger was out, poised at her throat "I'll have that song. Florian and Jonquil, you said," he reminded her curtly.

"Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life."

"Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray, stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day. Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray, soothe the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way."

Her thin voice gave out and he remained in silence. Slowly he put down the blade and in his drunken state felt himself cry for the first time since he could remember. Tears rolled down his cheeks and he did nothing to prevent them.

She was a child.

A beautiful, naive, stupid girl. He should not...could not...

He felt her hand cup his cheek and for a second turned his face into it so that his nose brushed her palm. The smooth soft hand of a lady who had never once laboured outside. He breathed in her scent and heard her clear little voice in the darkness, "I want to come away with you. I can't stay here any longer – Joffrey will end up killing me soon. Do you promise to keep me safe?" She sounded afraid and shy at the same time.

Sandor nodded and attempted to pull himself together. His voice was rough, "You have my word. We must hurry though," he removed his white cloak and swung it around her dainty shoulders. "Wear this. Keep the hood up so they don't see your hair."

"What about you?"

He laughed a bitter laugh. "They'll know me, little bird. Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knows my face."

In silence she moved around her small room, collecting her few possessions. Sandor's head was still spinning and when she was done he pulled her by the arm through the castle and towards the gates. It was quiet here – only a few guards were still patrolling. He guessed that the majority or Joffrey's army was still fighting which meant Baratheon's army was making a good attempt. He approached the guards with Sansa in tow and did not hesitate. "Move. I need to get through."

The guard flinched. "No one is permitted to leave the city, ser."

"If you don't get out of my way I'll cut you down where you stand. I am no ser," Sandor unsheathed his sword and held it out warningly. "Miller, isn't it? You are newly married – I'll cut her down too after."

The guard backed away quickly; Sandor's huge frame dwarfed him by comparison. He nodded meekly and opened the gates for them to pass. It was as he had said earlier – everyone knew the Hound's strength and skill with a blade. Everyone knew to fear him. The Hound roughly pulled Sansa after him and to their right were the stables where two horses stood alone in the padlocks. He untied the largest one and climbed up into the seat. He looked down at the hooded figure and leant over to assist her up, "Take my hand, child."

Her hand was so small in his and her grip was weak. He pulled her up easily and she swung onto the saddle behind him. He remembered the mob's attack on Joffrey. The Hound had slashed through the crowd to Sansa and saved her from the men's grabbing hands. She held onto his chest as tightly as she had done then.

He nudged the horse with his foot and they moved away from the city's walls. They remained in complete silence in case somebody from inside the castle should see them leave and alert someone. To the far left they could hear shouts and grunts from the fighting men. The ships from Baratheon's army were ablaze and they lit up the murky waters with a golden glow. It looked as though Joffrey's side was winning. The sky around them was dusted pink and orange from the fire but a few twinkling stars remained to show that it was still nightfall.

They sped on through the night and continued even after dawn. They had to make as much distance between themselves and the castle as they could and to protect them further he'd chosen a lesser known road. Sansa's grip on his waist never slackened but he could tell she was half asleep by the way she rested her head on his back. He'd given her his cloak so he was unprotected from the wind and – at one point – light shower but he'd been in worse situations. For the rest of the day they rode and only stopped once at lunchtime for a small rest but they never once spoke. Now they were outside the boundaries of the castle titles and etiquette mattered very little. He was a grown man and she a child; they didn't need to say anything.

Finally he decided they were far away enough to stop for the night. He found a shabby Inn that no Lannister would ever dare call upon and slowed the tired horse to a halt. He slid off the saddle and groaned as his muscles at once screamed for rest. He was dirty and exhausted and turned back to the saddle to see that Sansa was barely awake. Gently, with surprising care, he lifted her in his arms and carried her as though she were a doll into the Inn.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa leaves the Seven Kingdoms

Sansa finally awoke sometime around dawn. Her body was tucked up beneath a thin patched blanket and when she breathed out she could see a faint mist as though she'd inhaled one of Jory's foul pipes – yet she felt far from cold. Her body felt on fire though it trembled from the cold at the same time. She'd been feverish before and Bran was constantly unwell when it grew frosty since the young boy never knew when to stop climbing and stay indoors so she knew the symptoms. However, she'd never been this ill without her mother or a maester watching over her. She managed to peep over at the fireplace and saw that the embers had long ago died. The room was still dark due to the lack of a window although she knew she should be grateful as a window would surely create drafts. She tried to sit up but her head pounded as soon as she tried to move and she could feel her sleeping shift stick to her body from damp sweat. She instead resolved to sleep some more and, with her head spinning, fell into a deep sleep straight away.

She felt the Hound shake her shoulder but couldn't awake from the deep slumber. She was trembling in earnest now and her teeth chattered. She heard him move out of the room before returning with his own blanket. He dumped it on top of her along with his cloak and perched on the side of the bed. He tried to talk to her but she only heard the rumble of his deep voice. Her eyes rolled back into her head and once again she found sleep.

Dreams came and went. At one point she dreamt that she was back in Winterfell with her brothers and sister. She was kneeling in the snow with little Rickon, helping him to make the snowman's head, while the others assembled the rest of the body. Robb was singing a song that the cook always used to sing and Sansa accompanied him without thinking. Robb's voice was clear and strong, and hers was light and soft. Soon enough Jon Snow had joined in, and Bran, whilst Rickon hummed along tunelessly. Arya had been collecting coal for the mouth but she suddenly dropped the load to jump at Jon. They all laughed and Sansa had to dry the tears from her eyes...but she found she couldn't stop laughing. Her ribs hurt and her siblings all turned to frown at her. "Sansa?" Robb called but she'd fallen to her knees. Her ribs ached and she was running out of breath. The frost was soaking through her skirts and the cold was spine curdling. Her hands came up to her throat and she clawed at the skin; she couldn't breathe! She was choking. She just managed to feel Robb's arms around her before she saw darkness.

The next thing she knew she was back in King's Landing. She was standing beside Joffrey on the balcony of her rooms and he was showing her his new crossbow. Any weapon in the hands of Joffrey was not ideal but she smiled to please him. He looked at her warily and then gestured down to the gardens. She looked down and saw the Hound holding a large black sack that seemed to have something squirming inside. Fear struck her but when he tipped it upside down a couple of wolf pups fell out. They were tiny, she supposed they were only a few days old, but Joffrey turned the crossbow on them anyway. "No!" she screamed and rushed forward to shove the crossbow's aim away but instead Joffrey turned it on her. She heard the clang before she felt the arrow. It hit her right in the chest and blood oozed down her dress to puddle on the floor. She gasped and blood spluttered out of her mouth onto Joffrey's grinning face.

"No..." she mumbled, her head tossing against the hard pillow. She managed to open her eyes but everything felt so  _heavy_. "Robb, help me. Arya, Jon..."

She felt a coolness on her forehead but she couldn't see who helped her. She couldn't even remember where she was or who she was with. She tried to focus and saw the blur of someone's face hover above her but once again passed out.

This continued for another five days. By the time the fifth day rolled around she managed to open her eyes and focus. The first thing she saw was the mass of blankets above her and then the Hound asleep beside her on the bed. The scarred side of his face was against the pillow and for a split second she tried to imagine what he might have looked like without the burns. There were dark shadows underneath his eyes and his skin looked haggard and pink from drink. He was unshaven but the beard only covered one side of his face – as did the black hair that fell loose around his face. He was by no means comely even without the burns, but he might've looked ordinary. She listened to his light breathing for a few minutes and then tried to struggle up.

"Keep still, girl."

"I feel a little better." Her voice broke and she sounded as raspy as he did. Her sleeping shift clung to her back with dried sweat and her throat felt parched; she craved water. Her entire body felt heavy and weak too.

He yawned and slowly sat up himself. She saw that he'd placed his long sword between them on the straw mattress and felt thankful to him for the surprisingly chivalric gesture. "You've been unconscious for the last four days. You need to rest."

She settled back down and allowed her eyelids to close for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the light. It looked to be around noon. "We can't stay here. They'll find us."

"With any luck they'd still be fighting Stannis's fleet. We can risk another night here."

"I dreamt..." Sansa's throat stung and she had to stop. The Hound got up from the bed and came back with a flask of water. He helped her to sit up and gently held the cup to her lips so that she could drink. She slurped at the liquid clumsily and felt her cheeks heat up with embarrassment but she was too busy drinking to care. After a minute he pulled away and she licked her lips, refreshed. She was about to speak again when he silenced her.

"Food first." The broth he fed her was lumpy with bits of hard meat but she didn't complain and he fed her in the similar way as before. When he deemed she had eaten enough he carried to plate away and then settled once more at her bedside. "Now. What did you dream, little bird?"

"I dreamt of my family. Of snowmen and singing. Of Joff too," she croaked, wincing at the memory. "I dreamt of the heart tree in Winterfell and it spoke to me with its horrible blood red mouth...I used to hate it when my father took us to it. It said the Starks were doomed and that I would never reach home. It said that the Lannisters would also fall; the Greyjoy's too. Every great family in the seven kingdoms will eventually fall to their knees."

"Feverish dreams are oft strange," he mumbled. "Wiser not to think of them."

She accepted this insight and huddled back down under the blankets. She smelt of sweat and dirt and wished sorely for a bath although she knew this was impractical in her weakened state. Instead she tried to sleep some more and the Hound left her to see to his horse.

When he returned she questioned him.

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere safe, little bird."

"The North?" she prompted hopefully. "Or to Riverrun? My lady mother's father holds the River lands. Hoster Tully. I've never met him though..."

"We can try it." His tone wasn't hopeful.

"You'll be rewarded. For saving me, I mean...My family will be grateful."

She thought he would be relieved but, ever the unpredictable, he only scowled at her. The side of his mouth twitched as he tried to repress the sudden flash of anger. "I want no bloody reward. I didn't sprint you away from King's Landing for that." Without another word he left the room, leaving her confused and disappointed. Over the next day they only spoke once more and that was at dinner time. Sansa realised that outside of King's Landing the Hound was just an ordinary man with a foul temper. Back at court they had been secure in their stations, she a Lord's daughter and he a sworn shield, but now that protocol was taken away she didn't know how to talk to him. Arya would've known what to say; she always used to hang around Jory and the master at arms back in Winterfell but Sansa didn't know how to converse with rough men like this. The Knight of the Flowers she could handle, though coming away somewhat tongue tied, but that was all courtly words. She felt indebted to the Hound but didn't know how to say so without displeasing him. He scorned courtesies and made her feel like a little girl again.

Soon enough the morning of their departure arrived and they left the Inn before even the sun had woken. The air felt cool and dew was sprinkled across the grass but the Hound had bundled her up in two cloaks so that she would not get sick again. She expected to ride behind him again but the Hound led two horses out of the stable; his own black demon horse and a sturdy looking grey palfrey. She looked at him questioningly but he only shook his head. Whether he'd stolen it or bought it she was grateful. Though not a strong horsewoman she felt more comfortable on her own horse and would be relieved to get some fresh air after being so stuffed up inside. He lifted her up onto the saddle easily and then mounted his own. He'd given her his white cloak so was wearing a rough woollen one purchased off the Inn keeper for twenty bronze stars. He pulled the hood across his face so that she could only see his mouth.

"Hood up, girl."

They rode for a good few hours, making their way slowly north. The Hound wouldn't let them ride up the King's Road in case they were spotted so they were instead heading towards Maidenpool. She didn't think it was best to question him so meekly ride beside him in silence. The provisions they'd brought were meagre; several wine skins, salted pork, some withered apples and a burnt bread. Sansa nibbled on an apple when they stopped for lunch and the Hound downed a wineskin but ate nothing. For a moment she allowed herself to believe that their journey to Winterfell would be equally as dull but just as they reached the Antlers she discovered that it would not be so.

They'd stopped in an Inn for a hot meal and a bath and just after Sansa had washed and changed into her sleeping shift the Hound had anxiously joined her. "I have news..."

She turned. Her hands had been busy braiding her hair but she stopped when she saw the Hound's expression. "What's wrong?"

"Winterfell. I'm sorry, little bird, but it's been raised to the ground. I just overheard two knight's talking about it. It was the Greyjoy boy. Your father ought to have killed him when he had the chance...He's slithered back under his father's influence."

Sansa felt her knees buckle beneath her and she had to hold on to the bedpost for support. "What about my family?"

He looked at her for a moment without speaking and then, in an unexpectedly kind gesture, went to her and brushed the loose strands of hair away from her face. "They mentioned that the little lord was missing, presumed dead."

Her grief was great. After the execution of her father she'd been sure that nothing else could hurt more but the loss of her brother...possibly two... was heart wrenching. Bran had still been a little boy. During a war it was more understandable that adults could be killed fighting but the slaying of an innocent child was unfathomable. She assumed that it was Bran seeing as Robb was at the Neck fighting and Rickon was hardly bigger than a pup. Sansa had never loathed anyone quite so much as she now hated Theon Greyjoy. She hated Joffrey and his mother, of course, and they still gave her nightmares but Theon was a rotten turncoat. Years ago there had been talk of her marrying him in order to gain the Iron Island's loyalty but her mother had been venomously against it. Sansa felt sick at the thought of him.

The Hound didn't try and consol her after that initial moment. He kept out of her way for the most part and spoke even more rarely than usual. When he did speak, though, he always used a quiet tone as though afraid she'd burst into tears at the slightest thing – which she did frequently.

Sansa didn't take much notice of where she was anymore. She was swung up onto the saddle every morning at dawn and obediently rode beside him until the late evening. Her legs often cramped from being in the saddle for too long and the skin on her thighs was rubbed raw but it was nothing to what she felt inside. The first time she spoke up involuntarily was when they approached their first town; she'd become unaccustomed to seeing so many people and wondered why he was taking the risk of being so close to the chance of being discovered. "This is Saltpans, the harbour town in the Reach," he answered. He then reached over and, taking her reigns, pulled her horse to a stop. "There'll soon be a ship sailing for Braavos."

"Braavos?" She didn't know much about the place except that it was one of the free cities across the sea. She recalled that Arya's dancing teacher had come from Braavos.

"Little bird, I'm taking you to that ship."

Leave the Seven Kingdoms? Sansa had never been in a ship before and certainly never travelled abroad. The idea of leaving home didn't appeal to her. "What about my family? My mother and brother are still alive..." She had no idea where Arya was or even if she was still alive. She presumed that the young girl had run away during her father's arrest but Westeros was not a safe place for a young girl to be travelling alone. If she hadn't been kidnapped or killed she could have easily starved to death in some ditch.

"Your brother will not win this war. I know the Lannister's." Sansa's head snapped up and she opened her mouth to retort but he silenced her with a look. "Aye, and even if he does by some miracle win, a battlefield is not a safe place to take you."

"But..." What if her mother or Robb needed her? How would they find her? If she caught the fever again or got thrown overboard then they would have no way of knowing. She should go back to Riverrun and find her mother...the Starks should stick together. But then again she had been the one to run to Cersei with her father's plans; it was her fault Eddard Stark was dead. Maybe her mother wouldn't want her back? She swallowed the lump of guilt from her throat and spoke hesitantly, "...I'm a Stark. I have to go North."

"You're no wolf," the Hound replied, in his usual matter of fact tone. "Nor lion. Can you fight? Can you even hold a sword properly? What use will you be in a war? Battles are not won by pretty girls singing songs."

Sansa thought of her mother and how she could make even the toughest of warriors look like a foolish boy with one look. "My mother cannot wield a sword and yet she is needed."

"What are the Tully house words?"

"Family, duty...honour," she replied slowly. Family. Duty. Honour. She had let her family down and had her honour stolen by Prince Joffrey the day he stripped her, but Sansa knew the value of duty. Throughout those months of torment in King's Landing she had never once forgotten her duty to be a Lady. Her courtesies were her armour. She was not like Arya or Robb and had no stomach for Stark ways but she was a Tully. Bravery did not always have to be found on the battlefield; she could leave for Braavos and grow to be her mother's daughter, a true Tully, and then maybe one day find the courage to return to Winterfell. There was time for that...

"It is your duty to keep safe. By all means return after the war is finished and join what's left of your family but for now you have to keep out of the way... There is nothing cowardly about keeping safe, Sansa." For the first time he used her given name and the surprise alone made her look up at him.

 _He's right_ , she thought.  _There's no place for me here._

_Not yet._

"Will you protect me?" Sansa asked finally. She glanced down at the small town behind her and sure enough there were three boats drifting offshore. One might be for her. "I won't go alone." She was afraid of him, afraid of the way she sometimes caught him staring at her, but she trusted that he would not let her down and she needed to share his courage. The Hound considered her for a moment before shrugging,

"I'm no knight, little bird, but I did swear to keep you safe. Aye, I'll come with you."


	3. Chapter 3

 

The Hound left Sansa by the horses while he made enquires among the sailors about two passages for Braavos. Sansa didn't regret the decision to leave the kingdom but still felt nervous at the thought of disappearing completely. Once, when they were much younger, her father had taught his children the importance of being a Stark and insisted that a Stark must always be in Winterfell. With her brother bravely fighting the Lannisters and the rest of her true-born siblings dead or vanished it looked as though Winterfell would for now sit in Theon's greedy hands. She hated the idea of him running her father's keep and sitting in his great seat in the hall. If she had the control of an army she would have flown up North and reclaimed her home but realistically speaking everything that she currently owned in the world fit in a small woven sack. The Hound had been right in saying she was better off away from the fighting but Sansa was adamant that she was not running away from fear – she would be back one day. She stood by the stable entrance and watched as the townsmen went by on their daily errands. It was a smaller town than Winterfell yet there were more people and all seemed to acknowledge one another as they went passed. The stable boy, a dirty long haired youth, had been hovering by her side for the last half an hour but she didn't mind the company even though he couldn't get a sentence out without blushing. He reminded her of Tyrion the Imp's manservant Podrick Payne. "So far we've been lucky in the war," he was saying, "It hasn't come 'ere yet. My pa says no one in their right mind would try to burn down a port. Be like diggin' their own grave. Beg your pardon," he added quickly. "But people need to eat, don't they? Stop the ships and you'd be done for."

"I suppose." She didn't know much about the war except that every house seemed to be involved. The only house she was concerned with was her own.

"Did you see any fightin' on your travels? Pardon, but you look like you've been ridin' for a while."

"No, we avoided the fighting."

"I used to want to be a Knight an' fight in the wars but it's not likely I'll ever get out of Saltpans," he said cheerfully, and stretched his arms in a way to show off his meagre muscles. "Still, s'not a bad place really. Plenty to do...Where do you hail from then?"

Sansa was going to reply with a made up town name but the Hound responded before she got the chance. He returned with his cloak still pulled low over his face and his longsword hanging from his side. "Our business is our own. You'd do well to keep out of it, boy."

The stable boy took one look at the Hound and hurried back to work. Sansa raised an eyebrow and said "He meant no harm."

"He was eyeing you up like a steak of meat. You can't trust anyone."

"Except for you?" She asked lightly. She began to follow him down to the docks but halted when he stopped and looked back at her. She had only been asking in jest so his answer surprised her.

"Including me. The first thing you have to learn when alone little bird is to keep to your own council. I might not always be here to watch over you so you must learn to rely on yourself. People might try and sway you but you have to stay firm. At least on the inside."

"I can do that. I did all the time in Joffrey's court." Sansa replied, hugging herself against the mild wind. "I smiled and did as they asked like a pretty little bird, but it was all a mask. Inside I was screaming at them."

The Hound considered her for a moment and then nodded without saying another word although she saw the corner of his mouth twitch. The docks were the busiest place in town where people of all ages scuttled about shouting orders and fulfilling them. The Hound led her to the very end where a man dressed all in black stood talking to a young boy. "And when you've done that run back and tell me what he says," she overheard him saying and the boy ran off to obey. The man noticed them and greeted Sandor – evidently they'd met earlier. The man was about her father's age with tufts of grisly dark hair and piercing blue eyes that didn't seem to miss a thing. Sansa wondered if he was a runaway from the Night's Watch but in that case she doubted he'd still be flaunting his black robes. He looked her up and down when she was introduced and grinned, revealing a friendly enough smile. "Nice to meet you Leah Rivers. No wonder you're so keen to get off, eh? My ship was supposed to set sail two days ago but the weather's been so bloody bad that we've been stuck here in the mud and shit. Still, looks calm enough now. We'll be heading off tomorrow morning if you want passage."

"To Braavos?" Sansa hesitated, although it was more of a statement than a question.

"Aye. You been on board a ship before, girl?" She shook her head and the captain chuckled. He gave her a reassuring smile and once again she saw a little of her father in him. She felt comforted. "You'll find your sea legs easy enough. The name's Tybolt."

Sansa was frightened about being on the ship at first but by the time the harbour had vanished she was able to shrug off the fear easily enough. She was the only female on board so had a room to herself but the Hound was only next door in case any of the crew got ideas. She noticed the captain keeping a protective eye on her as well although she never caught any of the crew looking at her at all; in fact, they seemed to downright ignore her in favour of their work and the occasional game of gambling. Her favourite place to go was to the front of the ship where she could lean right over and see the wave's part and feel the sea spray against her flushed cheeks. Once or twice she even saw dolphins swimming a few yards away and knew Bran would've loved to see them. The blue sea surrounded them in every direction and it was all she could see in the far distance which made the sky merge with the horizon. Looking out over the waves she felt a surge of freedom that she was finally away from the Lannister's, King's Landing and all those who hated her. Nobody could hurt her here. The Hound always chastised her for roaming about unattended but she even found him less scary out at sea. The Hound kept himself mostly to his room but she always went to sit with him at dinner even though they usually sat in silence.

After the first week the weather grew so foul that she had to stay inside her bedchamber. She spent the time on her bunk occupied with the crew's mending and tying fishing nets in the attempt to ward off seasickness but eventually it caught up with her. For several days she kept to her bunk with a bucket beside her to catch her vomit. The sea was rough and it made the ship rock to and fro nauseatingly. She managed to eat a little broth but other than that she hid beneath her mattress with her eyes squeezed shut.

Their passage only took three weeks but by the time they reached Braavos Sansa was exhausted and keen to get on dry land. As they passed under the Titan of Braaos she marvelled at its size and thought of how Arya would've loved to be in her shoes. Old Nan used to tell them stories about the Titan of Braaos when they were little and Arya had always longed to travel to the free cities. Sansa was peering over the side at the approaching Braavos with the captain and Hound standing beside her. She had never seen such a town before; all the buildings were short and squat with hardly any trees or plants growing around them. Winterfell had been surrounded by grand oaks and even King's Landing had beautiful gardens. All the buildings were coloured stale shades of red and orange so that the overall impression was of dust. When they drew closer she saw that there were several larger buildings built behind the houses which looked like Septs...one of which looked to be on fire.

"What is that place?" She asked the captain, pointing to it.

"That's the temple of R'hllor, The Red God. All the Gods are honoured in Braavos although some are more demanding than others. What do you think of the place?" The ship had finally come to a stop and it was time for them to depart.

"It's...different." It was also very hot. She knew from her lessons with her old maester that the free cities had a different climate to that of Westeros and today was as hot as a summer's day in King's Landing. She felt stuffy and uncomfortably in her woollen gown of grey.

"Even an honest man can make a fortune in Braavos," Tybolt told her. "I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for."

"Thank you for your kindness," Sansa smiled and then climbed down the ladder into the waiting boat. Once the Hound was seated beside her the crew member who volunteered to take them ashore started to row. Sansa looked back only once to wave to the captain but after that she only had eyes for the approaching city of Braavos. When they disembarked in Ragman's Harbour she looked around them and felt herself shrink instinctively against the Hound.

"Confidence, little bird. You're safe now."

"From the Lannisters, yes, but who knows what we might find here..."

"Cutthroats and thieves are all the same no matter what language they speak. I can handle them."

"Where will we stay?"

"We need to find a home."

Sansa put a hand on his arm to stop him and looked down at her feet awkwardly. "How are you to pay for this? I have no money of my own."

"I have enough to see us for the moment."

Finding accommodation was easier than she could ever have expected...and as a daughter of Winterfell she had no idea what to expect in the first place. She was used to having everything prepared for her with maidservants to help her dress and clean up after her. The men of Braavos didn't seem that interested in who they were or why the Hound kept his face mostly covered, only the substantial amount of gold in his pockets saved from the various tourney's he'd won. A small house overlooking one of the canals was quickly purchased and like all the buildings of Braavos it was built from pale red brick with a flat roof. It only contained four rooms; two upstairs where they might sleep and two below for a large kitchen and tiny washroom. Sansa hardly took any of it in and before she knew it found herself standing in the kitchen bewildered. Like the rest of the house it was clean and simply furnished with an open window above the table and a great smoky hearth. It was not unlike a modest home from the seven kingdoms apart from the marble floor and airy windows. Its simple elegance reminded Sansa more of King's Landing than she cared to admit. She was just about to explore the rest of the house when the Hound came in.

"Will it do?" He rasped.

Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat and gave a tiny nod, surprised that he would ask what she thought. The Hound began to untie his armour and they passed a moment in silence. Sansa wondered for a split second if she was still doing the right thing before speaking. "I feel too indebted to you. For rescuing me from Joffrey...and now this. It's so much."

"It's nothing," he replied gruffly. "I have to keep my head low as well. I'm a deserter now."

She tried to catch a glance at his face to see what he was thinking but he avoided her gaze. Instead she looked around the room once more and her eyes fell on the hearth where a cooking pot perched ready to be used. The sight made her grimace and then suddenly she realised just how difficult this new situation was going to be. "I can't cook."

He snorted. "Better learn fast." He was simply dressed now in a pair of woollen breeches and a cream tunic. She thought he looked extremely odd without his armour – and smaller in size. "I'm going out for a while. While I'm gone you aren't to leave the house and make sure the doors and windows are bolted. It would be a fine thing to be robbed this early in."

"Where are you going?" Sansa asked, somewhat alarmed by his briskness. "You're leaving me alone?"

The Hound studied her and then his lips turned up into a smirk. "I can't stay with you every second of the day, little bird." She heard him chuckle as he left and then looked around at the empty room forlornly. Whilst clean and tidy the place looked cold and unloved – obviously it had been some time since the owner decorated it. She sighed and pulled a ribbon out of her pocket before braiding her hair back. She would try to repay the Hound back for his kindness by first making the house a little cosier. She hurried to lock the doors like he said and then fetched a broom from the hallway to tackle the hearth. After sweeping away most of the grime she got down on her hands and knees to try and reach in and clean the back wall but jumped after hearing a creak behind her and she bumped her head against the stone. Wincing, she looked over her shoulder and saw that a cat had crawled in through the shutters.

She got to her feet and shooed the animal out of the back door. Just as she was about to shut the door again she noticed that a man was selling flowers just across the opposite canal. The man was handsome with long auburn hair and a shaved beard that looked red in the sunlight. He was speaking the foreign tongue to a passing woman who blushed though the compliment must have worked for she purchased a yellow flower. Sansa looked at the flowers in his cart and didn't recognise a single specimen; she wondered if even Highgarden could boast to owning such beautiful flowers. The man noticed her looking and gestured for her to approach but she hesitated, fearful. The Hound would go ballistic if he found her strolling around the streets. Still, it was only over the bridge and she would be back within minutes...the street was almost deserted.

She made up her mind and approached the flower seller cautiously. As she drew closer she saw that he was dressed in a fantastic outfit of purple satin with slashed sleeves and pointed shoes. She smiled at him and he replied by picking out a single flower from his cart before surprising her by uttering her own language. "Elario sells his flowers every day but never has he given away one for a smile. This is the brightest flower he owns. Full in bloom." He held out an exquisite flower of orange and she took it with a curious look.

"You speak the language of the seven kingdoms."

"Elario can speak many languages. He meets many people and learns all sorts of new things."

"Thank you." Sansa lifted the gift to her nose and smelt the scent, feeling the velvet petal brush against her nose. For a second she was reminded of the glass gardens back in Winterfell. She hurried back into the house without giving the man named Elario another look but when she saw the plain kitchen again she took a couple of Hound's coppers from the table and headed back to the cart to buy a whole bunch of roses. She arranged them carefully in a jug and placed it in the middle of the scrubbed table so that the whole room smelt like summer. After that she explored the rest of the house and tidied and rearranged the upstairs rooms to look nicer. Her own room was painted in white with a small thatched bed of straw under purple sheets. It was hugely uncomfortable but she wouldn't complain; like everything else she would just have to get used to it.

The Hound arrived back just after nightfall with a sack of food and wine. There was a chicken to be cooked and potatoes to be baked. Sansa helped as much as she could but got squeamish when it came to removing the giblets. They ate the meal at the table with a fire roaring in the hearth although really it was unneeded as it was still warm outside. The Hound had taken one look at the flowers and grunted but he said nothing - which she took as a good sign.

"Where did you go today?"

"I had things to arrange. More food will be delivered tomorrow, as well as a few things for the house," he answered between mouthfuls, "The area is quite safe. Just behind the next houses lies the Isle of the Gods and the Temple of the Moonsingers...or some such horse crap. I can barely understand these Braavosi."

"The Moonsingers led the original Braavosi refugee's to this site, I believe," she murmured, thinking back to her lessons, although in honesty she had been more interested in gossiping with Jeyne Poole than listening to the history of some faraway place.

"The Braavosi are a religious lot. There are plenty of temples if you wish to pray for your family," he added after taking a long sip of wine. "I saw you go to the Godswood many times before though little good it did you."

"You don't believe in the Gods do you?"

"Which one? Seems we're spoilt for choice here."

"The Seven."

"No, little bird. I gave up believing in the Gods when I was younger than you."

She realised that he was referring to his face and made no reply. She knew all about that incident but had never mentioned a word to anyone in case he found out. His face looked dreadful in the firelight but it was his lips that she found the most horrifying...one side had burnt off leaving only pink scar tissue. No wonder the side of his mouth twitched sometimes. She thought about what his mouth might feel like but then flushed in embarrassment. The Hound would only laugh at her if she asked. She thought about how she might feel if Robb had held her face to a flame but the situation was unfathomable – Robb loved her and would never do anything to harm her. The Hound's brother Gregor must've been born without a heart.

"What was your childhood like?"

"Why in blazes do you want to know about that?"

"Well...I thought we could learn a bit about each other," she said earnestly. "We're going to be living together, after all. And if I'm not allowed outside than let me at least know you."

"It isn't exactly a fairytale, girl. My childhood was one of blood, pain, and anger. Gregor was a bully and a thug...and he made those years a living hell for me. I left as soon as I could."

"To lay your sword at Tywin Lannister's feet?"

"Aye."

"What then?"

"At first I was just another Lannister dog but after the crown prince was born I became his sworn shield. A decision I might regret if I cared to think on it."

"What do you like to think about instead?"

A bitter look took over his face. "Nothing. That's why I drown myself in wine. Frequently." He poured himself another glass and then filled hers too. She tried to protest that she wasn't a drinker but he just snorted. "This is foul stuff but it gets the job done same as any other."

"My father let us have a cup at feasts..." she took a sip and recoiled at the strong taste.

"I can't imagine your brothers abiding to that rule. I saw Eddard Stark's bastard drunk at Winterfell."

"Jon...I haven't thought about him in a long time. He'll be at the Wall, if he's still alive."

"I considered the Wall at one point," The Hound admitted and she looked at him in surprise. "But didn't fancy the idea of dying for someone else. There's no heroics in martyrdom."

"Nor Knights," she replied and he nodded in agreement.

"It's the whole stinking hypocrisy. No real man would beat an innocent girl. Nor stand by and allow it to happen..."

She laid her drink aside, "You saved me."

"I let them hurt you."

"You got me away from it all. I can handle a few bruises," she insisted. "I know you're a good man."

"Then you're an idiot. I'm no better than the rest of them," he snapped.

"Will you just let me thank you?" She was finding his stubbornness exhausting.

"If it please you." His retort was so sarcastic that it made them both chuckle and the tension left the room. Sansa finished her goblet of wine and found that her speech was becoming slurred and felt cheerful for the first time in months. She giggled when the Hound told her funny stories about Joffrey and she in turn told him about her brother's prank in Winterfell's vaults that frightened her. After the second cup they both moved to the rug before the fire and sat opposite each other cheerfully retelling stories and thoughts.

"I've never felt like this before," she hiccupped. "My cheeks feel funny."

"Might be wise to easy up, little bird," the Hound recommended.

"What should I call you now? I have no name for you and Dog is a horrid nickname."

"Sandor will suffice. Might look strange if the neighbours hear you call me hound. We're already too conspicuous."

"Sandor..." she tried the name on for size. "You shouldn't call me little bird anymore. I'm hardly little – I'm almost as tall as my lady mother now."

"You're still little, girl."

"Not a girl either. I'm a maiden flowered." She frowned and stood up and smoothed down her dress to show off her figure. It was an action she would never have tried if sober but the drink had made her bold. She put another hand on her hip and composed her face into one of Cersei's pouts. "You see?"

Sandor turned and his gaze ran up her form, taking her all in. He then looked away as though slapped and chuckled unkindly. "Teats and hips don't make you a woman. And wipe that stupid look off your face. You look like a common whore – it doesn't suit you."

She cringed and sat down on her seat, her face burning with embarrassment. Sandor sighed and he knelt before her, taking her chin in his rough hand. She remembered the other times when he'd knelt before her like this...once to wipe the blood off her lips and another to inform her of the loss of Winterfell. His grey eyes were glazed from the drink and his breath smelt sour against her face. Sometimes, when he thought she was looking elsewhere, he would look at her in the same way as this and it made her uncomfortable. "You're a beautiful girl, Sansa. You make a man want to kill for you. Don't be in such a rush to grow up...Not yet. Do me that one kindness."

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Settling in.

 

On the rare occasions that Sansa went outside alone she made sure not to talk to anyone and tried to keep her eyes to the ground - although this wasn't always easy when she was itching to explore the new exotic land. Whenever Sandor accompanied her he made sure to walk only behind her which she found increasingly annoying yet no matter how much she entreated him he would not walk beside her as an equal. She found this odd considering his hatred for the hypocrisy of the upper classes but he remained firm. As though he wished to keep her at arm's length. They weren't friends and while she trusted him to keep her safe there was always something between them that made closeness impossible. She didn't look up to him as a father although he was closer to that age and certainly didn't see him as an elder brother that she could tease. She couldn't pin point the exact reason for the tension in their relationship. Once or twice as they walked along the canals she caught people looking between them and this always made her blush; he certainly wasn't her husband! They lived together in amicable peace and only spent a few hours of the day together for Sandor usually left for unknown places and she would practise her baking or housekeeping. He never told her where he went and she didn't enquire as long as he was home before nightfall; she feared having to stay by herself as the buildings were so squat and she pictured robbers climbing in through her window. She was still jumpy whenever alone and the slightest of noises woke her up afraid. She hoped that one day she wouldn't have to keep checking over her shoulder. She also suffered from horrible nightmares; mostly about Joffrey and the Queen but every now and again her family would make an appearance and she would wake up crying.

On one of these occasions she awoke just before sunrise and decided to rise early and walk to the Isle of the Gods. She had glimpsed the temples but as Sandor had no interest in the Gods she hadn't yet had a chance to venture over to the Isle. The streets were more or less deserted when she stepped outside and she was thankful. The sun was just beginning to rise in the distance so the air still held a chill and the dusty ground was not yet hot to walk on. For once she didn't walk on the side of the road in a bid to not be seen but walked swiftly down the middle; she reasoned that anyone watching would assume she was simply devout and she was wearing a scarf over her head to hide her distinctive hair. Bridges were common in Braavos to get over the many canals but to get to the Isle she had to cross over one of the large marble bridges and the one she chose had fish, crabs and squids carefully carved into the marble. The Braavosi's main diet consisted mostly of seafood – something that Sansa unfortunately had to get used to though it often made her sick. When she crossed to the other side she began walking down the marble street and she has her face hitched up to admire the massive buildings around her. As Sandor had said the closest one was the Moonsingers Temple which was by far the largest and capped with a silver dome. Guarding the front steps was a pair of marble maidens which looked so life like and beautiful that Sansa had to stop and gape. Their faces had been exquisitely carved to look both solemn and brave and while naked from the waist up they had white robes draped down their legs to cover their most modest areas. She thought she might've blushed at seeing something so provocative but instead was just taken back by the beauty. There was nothing at all like this in Westeros.

She continued down the walkway and spotted one or two other early birds leaving tribute at the doors of the next building which was unknown to her. It wasn't as large or ornate as the first but it had a quiet dignity that she admired. It sat high up on a rocky knoll of stone and was windowless, and above the great doorway was the phrase  _Valar Morghulis_  which she did not understand. She moved on but the next temple was different to the other two; while the first two had been elegant and solemn this one looked crude and bold. It was a large block of stone painted in the same dusty red as the rest of the houses in Braavos but at every door beacons had been set alight. High on top of the construction was another fire that she had first seen aboard the ship which sent smoke high up into the air above Braavos. Sansa didn't approach this temple. For some reason it gave her a horrible feeling and she distrusted the flames; flames had killed both her lord grandfather and uncle and destroyed Winterfell. She'd heard stories of the old King Aerys, the Mad King, and his fondness for fire from Old Nan. She felt a sudden fondness for the North and its ice.

She only saw one other temple on this side of the Isle and this time she recognised it straight away. The building stood opposite the Moonsingers and was small with seven pillars supporting the golden roof. Sansa went inside for a moment and saw tributes to all of the Seven that she had grown up with and felt herself smile. She had always preferred her mother's Gods to her father's. The Seven each had their own parts and she used to love looking at the pretty statues and paintings in Winterfell's Sept. It'd always been far more interesting than sitting in her father's godswood with only the silent trees for company.

When she arrived home she was disappointed to find that Sandor had already gone for the day. She sighed and sliced some bread to break her fast with. She spent the morning making a new loaf but was interrupted at midday by a knock at the door. She paused – her senses immediately alert – and didn't move. Who could be knocking at the door? Sandor had a key and always just strode in without warning. Nobody else knew who they were. She wiped her doughy hands on a cloth and quietly approached the window to get a peek at the mysterious visitor. She saw a flash of red hair and a handsome face and realised that it was the flower seller from her first day. This did little to soothe her worries and she wished that Sandor was here to tell her what to do.

"A flower for the beautiful girl!"

She smiled despite herself and unlatched the shutters. She had to stand on her tiptoes to lean out but she thought it safer than opening the door. "Elario."

He turned when he heard her voice and, eyes twinkling, approached the window. He was again dressed in flashy purple silk though this time had his auburn hair down around his shoulders. His hair reminded her of the Knight of Flowers's flowing locks. "A girl has not been seen for days. One must wonder if she has been locked inside."

"I've been busy," Sansa answered. "Have you been looking for me?"

He only smiled and suggested, "They say flowers thrive in the sunshine. Come, walk with Elario."

"I can't. I think the – Sandor will be back soon. He'll worry if he finds me gone."

"A girl is young to be married to such a man."

"Oh!" she blushed and shook her head. "I'm not married. He's my uncle." They had agreed that an uncle was the safest option and the one that would provoke the least questions.

"Well then, at least accept a flower," Elario picked out a flower from the basket on his arm and offered it to her. It looked like a bluebell only with different petals and was pink. She smiled and went to take it when he pulled away slightly. "In exchange for a girl's name."

"Leah," Sansa replied hesitantly.

"Leah." He let her take the flower and gave her a mischievous wink before leaving. Sansa watched him go and smelt the scent of sunshine and sweetness. Her heart was pounding and she felt a warmth coarse through her body. It had been a long time since she'd felt this way and that was with Joffrey, when she still believed in knights and fairytales. She liked feeling this way. She liked being admired and having a handsome man dote on her. She couldn't help but smile and was in a good mood for the rest of the day.

She didn't see Elario the next day even though she purposefully kept the shutters open. Sandor came home unexpectedly around lunchtime and surprised her whilst she was dicing up vegetables. She swore when she accidently nipped her finger.

"Where did you learn such a word?" he asked, bemused.

"I overheard some fisherman saying it," she excused as she sucked the finger. "What are you doing home so early? You usually don't come back 'til the eve."

"You have me on a routine now? I'll come and go as I please, girl."

"As you please." The phrase had become almost a joke to them now and Sansa appreciated the fact that it now made her laugh instead of cry inside.

Sandor chuckled and poured himself a cup of small ale while Sansa went back to preparing the food. She was surprised by how easy cooking actually was although of course she hadn't tried anything hard yet as Sandor didn't seem to care what he ate as long as there was enough wine. Yet she felt no pride whenever she baked a loaf of bread, prepared fish stew or churned butter; she just shrugged it off. She was no housewife or kitchen maid – this was only temporary – she had been born to do greater things than cook. The only reason she did it without a fuss was to keep Sandor happy in exchange for all that he'd done for her. She also liked to watch the way he used the back of his hand to wipe his mouth afterwards.

"Have you seen the Purple Harbour yet?"

Sansa shook her head as she nibbled on a crust of bread. "I don't think so."

"I was thinking of going this afternoon if you'd like to come with me."

"Really?" She was usually confined to the few streets around the house but the Purple Harbour was further than she'd ever been allowed and was close to the Sealord, the ruler of Braavos, although of course if Sandor was with her she'd be safe.

The harbour was quite a long walk away and by the time they arrived Sansa was glad of the shade. The harbour was situated underneath the domes and towers of the Sealord's palace so the sun never got the chance to spoil the fisherman's produce. Unlike the Ragman's harbour this one was used mostly by the residents – which, she supposed, they were now – and was less dirty and loud than the other. Sansa enjoyed the time passing by stalls and looking at the contents in the carts. She saw foods that she'd never even heard of before and for the first time sampled the hot spices that all Braavosi adored. She was dressed modestly in a grey cotton gown that kept her relatively cool in sun although the sleeves and skirt were several inches too short now. She also wore the scarf over her hair, partly to hide her auburn tresses and partly because it also kept her head cool. She drew several glances as she walked but unlike in Westeros she felt at ease with the playful comments and smiles. She was beginning to think that the men in Braavos were ultimately just friendlier and more good humoured. The women too were all smiles and light hearted in their jests – several let Sansa have a bite of their catch for free and gave her a sip of cold lemon juice when she was thirsty. Needless to say she adored the lemon juice, which was light and sugary.

Sandor, on the other hand, kept behind her and scowled at the attention. The only time he conversed with one of the Braavosi was when he bought summer wine from the wine merchant. Once or twice Sansa saw scantily clad dressed women in pairs buying produce and by the way they exposed themselves and returned the wolf whistles she assumed that they were whores. One of them passed Sansa and gave her such a sultry look that it made Sansa blush to her roots. The woman smiled at Sandor, who looked back over his shoulder to watch her walk away. "Is she a... _you know_."

"Whore? Aye. Whores are more honest than most, you know. A whore will never lie to you unless you ask her to. Here in Braavos they're treated well." Sansa watched as the woman walked away and couldn't help but feel envious when she saw how the whore's hips swung seductively as she moved. Sansa couldn't rid herself of her childish prudery but still admired how sensual and confident the woman looked. Sandor snorted when he saw Sansa's pink cheeks and gestured for her to keep walking along the stalls. She walked along the dock's edge peering into barrels when she suddenly heard the strumming of a lute. She glanced around and wasn't the only one.

A large boat was pulling up beside them but it was unlike anything Sansa had ever seen before. It resembled the pleasure barges that she'd seen in paintings of Highgarden but it was much bigger and grander with golden leaf decorating the edges. Around twenty people were seated inside, some of which were reclining back on plump pillows. Sansa had never seen such glamour before; people of both sexes were all dressed in beautiful silken clothes of dark hues – navy blue, grey, dark purple – and some had peacock feathers in their hats and hair. They were drinking from golden goblets and there were plates scattered around holding what looked like rich dates, grapes, and freshly cut oranges. They even had a litter of young girls fanning them with ostrich feathers. Their party consisted of only five women while the rest were all men but the women themselves were stunning. Sansa looked on enviously at their painted lips, delicate fans, and glossy locks of hair. She had thought the whore before beautiful but she was nothing to these women...even Cersei didn't command this amount of glamour. The entire party were laughing at a joke and were oblivious to the servants dashing back and forth restocking their wine and foods. Sansa unknowingly stepped closer to see more and her gaze fell on the gold leaf decorating the boat's edge which she saw now had been painted on into spirals and little flowers.

She heard a sudden ripple of laughter and when she looked up her eyes met with those belonging to one of the beautiful ladies. The women stopped laughing and narrowed her dark eyes slightly before whispering to one of her male companions. He turned to look at her as well and Sansa struggled to move back before she became the target of some jest.

"Move out of the way!"

One of the servants pushed passed her and she suddenly lost her footing. The sea rushed up to meet her and she felt the warm sea water take hold of her body. She tried to shriek but the salt water burnt her throat and she waved her arms around wildly to try and swim to the surface. She had no idea how to swim and the weight of her dress seemed to be dragging her down...

And then she felt a hand around her wrist, pulling her back into the world.

She spluttered and coughed as Sandor swan them back to the dock. Hands reached down to pull them up and Sansa felt herself being carried away from the water's edge although she kept a strong grip on Sandor. The Braavosi townsfolk who had given her lemon juice and snacks fluttered around her to make sure she was okay and she replied in her own tongue that she was well. When they started to disperse one of the women patted Sandor on the shoulder and smiled at Sansa, "Good man."

"Yes, he is," Sansa replied. Sandor knelt beside her and seemed to check her all over before believing that she was fine. "I'm just embarrassed," she admitted. "I must've looked so foolish."

"You're a winter child. Swimming for you means phenomena."

"I was too busy looking at that barge," she confessed. She looked over but was disappointed to see the small ship already sailing away. She felt a pang at the loss of something so beautiful.

"The pleasure barge?"

"Was that what it was? It looked so lovely."

He snorted, "Courtesans, little bird. Well paid whores."

"But they were just eating and laughing..."

"Courtesans are bought not only for their cunts but for their time too. They have to make the poor bastard feel special before riding him."

Sansa grimaced at his language but didn't say anything else.

She saw another pleasure barge the following week closer to home and again was enraptured by the glamour and beauty of it all – although now she knew what the women were she didn't stare and only caught glances.

"Why do they look so happy? The women on the barges, I mean," she asked Sandor one night after dinner. He was sitting by the customary fire sharpening his long sword and she was sitting on a chair with her feet curled up beneath her.

"Must enjoy their work."

"How could they?" Sansa struggled not to blush as she really wanted to know the answer. Officially nobody had told her about what happened in the marriage bed but after hearing a few crude comments from Joffrey's guard and Cersei it wasn't hard to work out what happened. She had always considered the act as something sacred and that her maidenhead was something she was supposed to cherish and guard. The idea of selling your body for money was horrible to her so she couldn't fathom why those women had been laughing. It just didn't go hand in hand. "I mean, doing  _that_  for money."

He put his sword aside and studied her, "Do you think couples only fuck to make children?"

Sansa bristled slightly and replied haughtily, "For a lady it is."

"And what if I told you, little bird, that a woman can gain just as much pleasure from the act as a man can."

"Pleasure?" She repeated suspiciously. "You love your husband. It is a pleasure in pleasing him."

"Not bloody love. Have you never experienced passion? Aye, one day you'll feel it. You'll want something so much that you can hardly breathe. You'll kill for them. Risk a kingdom for them."

"Like my aunt Lyanna?" she replied. She knew the story of her aunt's downfall just as much as any other. She'd pieced most of it together from Old Nan's stories and the late King Robert's comments but her father rarely spoke of her. She assumed he was still grieving although Lyanna had died even before Robb was born. "That's what the crown prince Rheagar did. He abducted her and ruined her. There's nothing virtuous in that."

"What about the heroes in your stories? What do you think Florian felt when he first saw Jonquil naked in that pool?"

"They did nothing more than kiss," she answered hesitantly. She could not imagine the Knight of the Flowers acting passionately. He was too sweet, too pure. Honourable love had to be like that; not like Robert's or Rheagar's.

"What of the bawdy Bear and the Maiden Fair?"

"It's a tale about a bear licking honey from a girl's head... what's so wrong about that?"

"That was no honey, little bird, and the hair was elsewhere."

Sansa tried to look determinedly at the ground but her eyes flickered up and she saw that Sandor was silently laughing which made her burst into little pearls of laughter too though she was still oblivious to his meaning. She smiled at her foolishness and the two spent yet another night enjoying each other's company.

"Lady Catelyn will string me up alive for corrupting her precious daughter."

"She'll be horrified when she hears that I've been living alone with an unmarried man," she thought out loud and couldn't help but giggle.

"I heard from a tradesman that your brother has married. I thought you ought to know."

Sansa's Tully eyes widened out of surprise. "Married?" The idea seemed unfathomable although she reasoned that it had to happen sometime. She wondered what sort of woman her new sister-in-law was and felt disappointed that she hadn't been there to share in the happiness. It was strange to think that her sibling was growing up while she was stuck here never changing.

"Aye, and dishonoured his pledge to another."

"He would never...Robb is honourable. He would never betray his betrothed."

"Honourable enough to forsake a kingdom. He's a passionate one," he remarked cleverly and she felt utterly and truly defeated. She conceded the move by pouring him a cup of wine.

Sansa liked it when they were friendly towards another. She had witnessed Sandor's rage countless of times but when it vanished he was quite calm and well mannered. She thought sometimes that he was more like a Hound than he let on; give him a treat and his temper would be soothed. She wouldn't go as far as tickling him under the neck though. However, their sudden closeness didn't last long. The next morning when Sandor was about the leave Sansa heard a familiar knock on the door.

"A flower for the beautiful Leah!"

Sandor wrenched the door open with such force that she was surprised that the hinges held. He looked startled for a moment but then the look he threw at her was worse than anger – it was disappointment. "Elario," she greeted quietly, feeling her stomach drop.

Sandor barged passed the young man who raised an eyebrow at his retreating form. "A man is tense?"

"Who knows? He never tells me anything," she sighed.

Sandor didn't return that evening, or the next. Sansa, who depended on Sandor almost completely, was driven to worry. She had no idea where he might be – for all she knew he could've been dead in a street somewhere. What if he'd drank himself into a stupor and fallen into a canal or had his neck sliced open by a pick-pocket? What on earth would she do then? She didn't know how to occupy herself so spent the time pacing back and forth before the fireplace. Every time she heard a creak or voice outside she tensed up and hoped it would be him. When he finally returned she was asleep upstairs but the slamming of the door was enough to rouse her. She padded barefoot downstairs and found him sitting at the table clumsily trying to remove his heavy boots.

"Where have you been?" Her eyes were red rimmed and puffy from where she'd cried herself to sleep. "I thought you were never coming back!"

"What do you care?" he rasped. His voice was slurred from the vast amount of drink he'd consumed. Even from the doorway she could smell the sour stench of wine.

Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat but instead of being relieved she felt angry. "You said you would protect me," she accusingly. "Not disappear for three days."

She knew she was being bold but his reaction was still startling. He suddenly lurched to his feet and grabbed hold of her thin nightdress, pulling her to him. His breath was warm against her face and his rage made her recoil. There was a faint tearing sound as the sleeve of her shift tore. "Were you scared, little bird?" he mumbled, his eyes never leaving hers. "Did you think someone would burst in and carry you off? Give you a good hard raping? You're scared of everything – even your own shadow. Even away from Joffrey you're still a peeping little bird. You say that one day you'll return to your family and reclaim Winterfell?" He spat on the floor. "Shit to that. You're no wolf. No fish either. You still want to be that little princess in a tower with her knight in shining armour. Mayhaps the queen was right – you are stupid."

There were tears running down her cheeks but she held his gaze bravely. His eyes were usually dark grey but tonight in the darkness they looked as black as coal. Her bottom lip trembled as she spoke, "You've had too much to drink."

"You're stupid to be here with me. What makes you think I won't drag you upstairs and rape you now..." he continued, ignoring her. "Or has that Braavosi already seen to you? How many times has he fucked you while I've been away? You think you can rule me but I have no master. I brought you here from Joff, I've supported you, brushed your hair back from your tears. You're a child. A spoilt child. Nothing is ever good enough for you. Stupid  _stupid_  little bird."

She said nothing but this seemed to enrage him more. When he hit the wall she was there to clean the blood off his knuckles, when he slumped back in the seat she covered him with a blanket, and when he mumbled apologies she whispered that it was alright. She left the room with her back straight but when she reached her tiny bed she dissolved once more into fresh tears. His words had stung her deeply. She knew that he would never bring this up again and that tomorrow morning they would act as though nothing had happened...but it was becoming increasingly obvious that something between them was wrong. They could not live like this together for much longer.

Yet the next day's conversation turned to different matters. Sandor's money was running out quickly. After paying for their passage here, for the house, for their various comforts, there was little left. He didn't tell her directly but the worried expression on his face after counting his coins was enough to tell her everything. She quietly stopped what she was doing and went to his side, taking his hand in hers, and giving him a brave smile. They'd get through this somehow; after everything she had been through she wasn't going to be defeated now.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This concerns major spoilers for aSoS

 

Sandor felt uneasy in Braavos. He'd spent most of his life in the South, only travelling elsewhere when the twerp Joffrey did. He found the easy lifestyle here tedious, the sun kissed people too cocky, and longed for the stinking alehouses that plagued the Seven Kingdoms where he could get properly drunk in a dark corner somewhere. He was a man built for brawls and his right hand felt empty without his long sword. He used to wear it customarily strapped to his back but after a bar fight on his second night he'd learnt that over here carrying a weapon at night meant an open invitation for a fight - and seeing as they were trying to lay low he thought it better to avoid confrontation for the moment. That didn't mean he was foolish enough to roam about defenceless; he had replaced his precious long sword with a regular sized one which could be worn at the waist, hidden under his cloak. He left the long sword home at the canal house along with the only other precious thing in his life.

He winced as his thoughts turned once again to her. He couldn't remember a lot of what was said last night but her puffy eyes this morning had told him enough. He knew he'd been a brute for leaving her alone for so long, but his anger had once again clouded his judgment and he'd sought solace in the only place he knew; the taverns. Their relationship had improved recently and he'd felt himself hoping despite himself that she was beginning to like him...to actually  _enjoy_  his company...but then it turned out she'd been making her own little friends behind his back. When he thought of Elario he saw the handsome lean face and the twinkling eyes that made up most young girls' fantasies. He'd hoped by now that the little bird had finally learnt her lesson about beauty and how it was often only skin deep...but no, she was still the same little chirping girl. After everything he'd done for her as well. He couldn't help but feel disappointed that none of it seemed to matter to her. Didn't she realise everything he was doing? He hadn't needed to come with her – he could've easily just left her at the harbour and gone on alone but no, he was here needlessly prolonging the ache he felt whenever around her.

And yet he blamed himself for feeling this way. It should be nothing to him what she did or thought. She should be allowed to see and do whatever she wanted. She was a noblewoman by birth to two of the oldest families in the land and he was the grandson of a meagre Kennelmaster. Why should he care what this child did? This beautiful child with the kindness and faith of an angel, always trusting and caring about those she shouldn't. People like her were uncommon in this day and age of needless fighting so why did he always feel the need to ruin her precious view of the world?

_Because she'll get hurt. Again._

And he would never again stand by while she was hurting.

He had tried his hardest to protect her and was so far failing. His money was running out and he had no idea how to find more unless he left her to work. In truth he hadn't been keeping a close enough eye on his remaining coins. He'd been more concerned with making sure she was comfortable and had everything she needed. They didn't really need the four rooms in the house, nor the fine wine he was so keen on. The little bird had offered to find work as a maid but he'd snorted in her face at the peculiar idea – something that must have upset her for she bit her lip and left the room. Yet the idea of her unblemished ladylike hands doing housework was just too meagre for her. She belonged in her stupid storybook world of princess and knights.

He would have to find paid work although the idea was not a welcome one. His days were already spent elsewhere.

He sat on the steps leading to the Temple of the Faceless God so that he had a good view of the sea on one side. He sat in silence, watching the wave's crash against the rocks, and thinking for the hundredth time how foolish he was. The steps were cold and made from marble like everything else in this bloody town which did little to warm the cold feeling in his chest. He had never felt happiness before, or if he had it was a long time ago when he was a child and his sister was still alive. He had never been so close to anybody who made him remotely pleased to be with them. His long service under the Lannister's had not been one of loyalty or affection. He had blotted out this emptiness with drink, with whores, and with the sweetest of all; killing. They all served to distract him from his empty life. And now there was her. Here was something so precious and beautiful...and she chose to stay with  _him_.

"Clegane."

He didn't need to look up to see who was addressing him. "What do you want?" he asked wretchedly.

"You've been sitting here for a long time. What is it that ails you now?"

Sandor snorted and stood to face the intruder. "Nothing ails me, priest."

The priest of the temple gave him a knowing look. He was a head shorter than Sandor and twice his age with an intelligent looking gaze and grey hair that was always pulled back from his wrinkled forehead. This was one of his many looks. "You were supposed to come back two days ago. Are you not serious about your training?"

Since his arrival in Braavos he had visited the temple every day in order to learn from the Faceless Men. The Faceless were a group of highly trained assassins who specialised in secrecy and elegance, unlike Sandor's usual style of blazing swords. They were renowned throughout the kingdoms as being the best of their trade yet nobody really knew anything about them. You had to visit the temple and greet the priest in order to know their ways. Initially it had been hard to convince the priest that he was being serious and that he was committed to the task but after plaguing the priest for weeks he had relented. Sandor was physically very fit and found most of the training easy enough apart from the odd quests he was sometimes sent on. Once he had been instructed to go down to the docks and to learn three new interesting things from the merchants. The priest told him that listening was one of the most important aspects of the Faceless Men and that a man who preferred to shout would never learn.

"I'm one of the most feared men in the Seven Kingdom's, old man. I've gutted more men and women than I care to remember. I know how to kill," he rasped.

"Yet you came to us to learn our ways."

Sandor gave him a hard look. "You know why I came here. You know what I want."

"Miracles cannot happen overnight."

"Then how long?"

"Years. It takes years to accomplish this task, and practise. You have to dedicate your life to the Faceless God and let go of all you hold dear."

Sandor snorted. "I have little in my life, least of all anything dear."

"And yet you are sitting here thinking of  _her_. It is not an easy path, I grant you. If you wish to learn our ways you must let go of all you love."

His words stayed with Sandor as he walked back along the canals home. In order to become a Faceless Man he had to let go of the little bird but it was because of her he was begging for help. One of the guilds tricks was the ability to change their face whenever they pleased. The idea of transforming his loathsome face into a normal one was more than he could bear; he did not dream of ever being handsome but instead he longed for a smooth face with no scars. He pictured arriving home and surprising Sansa with his new face. She would finally look at him without flinching. That alone made him dedicate every day to the Faceless Men. Sansa knew nothing about where he went and never once enquired as long as he was home before nightfall. He preferred not to tell her of his plans in case her courtesies forced her to come out with a load of bullshit about how he didn't need to change. If she ever tried that he would again laugh in her face.

He reached home eventually and let himself into the kitchen - although strangely enough the door was unlocked. This was peculiar as Sansa was always peeping at him to make sure it was locked so she wouldn't have forgotten. He scanned the room and when he saw the upturned chair he began to worry. He hurried upstairs to check her bedroom but again it was empty.

She was gone.

He felt a sudden burst of anger in the pit of his stomach at the thought of someone taking her away from him. He let out a roar and kicked over one of the chairs to vent his fury. How dare anyone steal the little bird? They must've been watching the house for some time to make sure he wasn't in when they grabbed her. He found the blue ribbon that Sansa often wore lying on the ground and stooped to pick it up. He wrapped it around his knuckles and brought it up to his nose to smell; lingering was the flowery smell of her hair and for a moment he closed his eyes and imagined her frightened little face. Wherever she was she would be terrified and that alone fed his anger. He straightened up and pocketed the ribbon by his breast. He would not fail her this time; he would find her.

He searched the streets long and hard for any sight of her. He asked several passer bys whether they'd seen a pretty girl with auburn hair but no one seemed to know anything. He was about to rush to the harbours in case somebody thought to whisk her away when he saw the Braavosi man Sansa seemed fond of. Elario didn't even have enough time to look up from his cart before Sandor had him pinned against a wall by the throat.

"Where is she?" he shouted, his free hand unsheathing his sword.

Elario struggled but Sandor's grip would not budge. "They came an hour ago – a man could do nothing."

"Who are  _they_?"

"The Sealord's men."

Sandor loosened his grip and the slim man fell to the dusty ground. "Take me to him." He didn't know much about the politics of Braavos except that instead of a king they had a Sealord who controlled the area. Who appointed him, he could not say, but the Iron Throne had no sway over him. Yet there were enough motives for him to want Sansa Stark – he could sell her back to the Lannisters and claim the reward or indeed keep her as hostage and ransom her back to her family. It was hard to guess his actions when he owed no allegiance. Elario led Sandor to the palace above the Purple Harbour although by the time they arrived it was already dusk. The building was not as grand as any in King's Landing yet like the temples here it was magnificent in its own way. It had tall twisting spires reaching up into the sky and a great many statues flanked the steps up to the sturdy oak doors. Each appeared to be a different God and Sandor must've passed at least half a dozen graceful maidens before he reached the doors. A man dressed in navy was guarding the entrance but he made no sign of stopping Sandor from going in.

Inside he found the Sealord's court standing around in groups in a hallway, all wearing feathers in their hats or hair. He heard one or two women giggle at the sight of him but he ignored them all as he looked around for Sansa.

"Where is she?" he shouted and everybody turned to stare at him.

Out of nowhere her little voice piped up and she was suddenly there running towards him, her lilac skirts whipping out around her legs. He caught her by the arm and pulled her close. "I'm here. I'm okay," she assured him although her face was pale and he could feel her trembling.

"What happened?" he asked and he noted how uncharacteristically desperate his voice sounded.

"He sent his men for me. I couldn't refuse," she explained quietly, glancing over at the whispering court. "He knows who I am, Sandor. He wants to see me."

"How could he know that? Did you tell anyone?" Elario's name hung silently in-between them but she shook her head.

"No one, I swear."

"Come quickly," he urged. "We can leave before-"

But before he could finish the heavy doors before them swung open.

"Sansa Stark."

Sansa looked terrified though she tried very hard not to show it by stubbornly pursing her lips together. Sandor released her carefully and followed as she went on through to what appeared to be the throne room. The throne itself was again made of white marble but each arm had been carved to look like the crashing of a wave. The Sealord stood in front of it. He was an incredibly imposing man; plump like Varys but as tall as Sandor. He was completely bald apart from the black hair at his temples which had been shaved to look again like a wave. Unlike the people in the entrance chamber – who opted for dark hues – he was dressed completely in magnificent white silk which no doubt made him look larger than he was. As he raised a hand in greeting Sandor noticed that he wore a glittering gem on each plump finger.

A herald announced him, "The Sealord, Tarquinio Marcelo."

"I met the late Eddard Stark only once but I see nothing of him in your face," Marcelo greeted, his voice gentle but firm.

"I take after my mother, my lord," Sansa chirped. "Catelyn Tully."

"You must have been very foolish indeed to think you could hide here. There is a reward on your head so large that it could reimburse the Iron Bank its loans twice over," he quipped. "Already several of my advisors have proposed sending you back."

"I came here for protection," she explained and her voice wavered slightly. "There was nowhere else for me to go."

"We cannot protect you, my dear. We are proud people but limited in our resources. The Seven Kingdoms could wipe us out as easily as I breathe. If they were to discover that we'd helped you we would see their wrath and Tywin Lannister is not one to cross."

She was silent for a moment but then spoke up, sounding every inch the frightened girl. "Please. I can't go back to the Lannister's – the queen will have my head. You have to hide me..."

"I cannot..."

"Please...They've already killed my father," her lips trembled. "They promised me they would spare him but the king ordered his execution anyway. I had to look upon the head of my father on a spike. My lord, the king is a cruel man." Sandor felt himself shuffle uncomfortably at the memory of turning Eddard Stark's head around on the spike to show Sansa. There was plenty of things he was ashamed of doing though he would never forget that.

The Sealord Marcelo nodded in agreement, "The Lannister's are treacherous. This is known."

"You will find no loyalty in them. They will thank you for handing me over and yet still go on ignoring you. They will never repay their debts," she insisted. Before him she sunk to her knees and pleaded with her eyes. Sandor could imagine her mother's despair at the thought of a Stark bowing to a minor Sealord but if this was what kept her safe than there was no other option. In actual fact Sandor felt quite proud of the little bird's actions. This was a mature move and the Sealord certainly agreed.

"Your troubles stir me. I am not an unfeeling man – nor do I particularly wish to help the regent queen. The Iron Throne has ignored us for as long as I can remember and we owe them nothing. They owe us a king's fortune and think they can appease us with false promises..." he explained carefully. "I am willing to risk the Iron Throne's wrath to help you, Lady Stark."

"You...you will?"

Marcelo nodded. "Braavos is a small town, yet a complicated maze for those who do not know it. We have our secrets and keep them well. I will place you somewhere in plain sight and they will never see you."

Her joy was apparent and she sprang up, "Thank you, my lord. Thank you so much!"

"And I hope that one day you will remember my kindness to you, daughter of Winterfell."

Sansa nodded. "Where am I to go?"

"To the Palace of Silk."

"A whorehouse?" Sandor burst out from behind her, his voice cold. "You want to place the daughter of Eddard Stark among whores?"

The Sealord looked at him gravely and Sandor didn't like the way his lips sneered. "The Palace of Silk is the most prosperous business in all the kingdoms. It is a citadel with guards at every door and has the very best of food and comforts. We take enormous pride of our courtesans here in Braavos. They're treated like queens. I think the Lady Stark will feel most comfortable there."

Sandor wanted to tell him to stuff his palace but Sansa took his arm and hushed him with a look. "It will do perfectly. I thank you again."

Marcelo bowed to her and gestured to a door behind him. "Please feel free to dine here tonight, my lady, we feast on fresh oysters. It would be a pleasure to entertain you."

"It will be a delight, my lord."

He nodded and went on through to the antechamber. Sansa was about to follow when Sandor caught her hand. "You can't be serious."

"I am. You heard what he said - there is nowhere that I can hide, Sandor. Especially now he knows. How soon do you think it will be before someone here let's slip my whereabouts? Then every opportunists in the city will be hunting for me," she bit her lip. "I will be safe there."

"I didn't rescue you from one cage only to throw you back in another," he reminded her sharply.

"I'm  _not_  stupid," Sansa said quietly, looking up at him. He felt a twinge of guilt for saying that the previous night. He knew she wasn't stupid – he was the stupid one. He'd heard the regent queen and Joffrey call Sansa stupid many times before and realised he'd hit a nerve. "One day I will repay you for everything you've done for me, I promise. But let me do this for us now. Joffrey once brought me so low... I am sure I can survive a little more humiliation if it means our survival. Besides, the way they describe this place...it sounds wonderful."

After their dinner they were introduced to the owner of the Palace of Silk and one of the courtesans. The owner was a rather plain man in his thirtieth year but dressed in such handsome clothes of dark purple that it was hard to look away. His easy manners and pointed beard reminded him somewhat of Littlefinger but without any of the mockery. His name was Giacomo Costa and seemed to be a serious sort of man. The woman beside him was dressed just as fantastically and her name was Ginevra Costa but unlike Giacomo she was all smiles. Sandor recognised her at once as one of the woman from the Purple Harbour because of her dark eyed splendour. She looked to be a little older than the man and they discovered that while Giacomo owned the palace his sister Ginevra ran it.

"But you must call me Ginny, of course," she permitted, her accent smooth. "I trust we'll become fast friends, Lady Stark."

Sandor watched as Sansa smiled and spoke some pretty words back. Sandor felt uneasy at the exchange and kept his gaze locked firmly on Costa. Even though he'd lived at court for years he still felt uncomfortable in situations like this. Give him a tavern or straight forward brothel and he came into his element but this was all too fake and slippery for his liking. He didn't trust either of them and kept only a pace behind Sansa – who, no doubt, was already bewitched by their pretty clothes.

"So what extra protection will you give her?" he asked after the introductions were finally made.

The man narrowed his eyes slightly at Sandor's brisk tone, "The citadel is already well protected but we will permit the young lady extra guards and she will never be alone. I'll give her two of most trusted girls to share her bed."

"Courtesans?" Sansa piped up, taken back.

"Goodness no. Protégés – girls who are still in training," Ginevra declared. "Our courtesans have their own handmaidens and rooms."

"Wait a moment. What of my loyal sworn shield? He must have his own quarters."

Sandor was surprised when she gestured to him but said nothing. He supposed that he was her sworn shield now – certainly he took greater care of her than he ever had with the shit that was Joffrey.

"I cannot allow such a man in the palace," Giacomo replied quickly. "Apart from myself the only men who visit the palace are the guards who know better than to ever approach my girls. I cannot risk your...er, sworn shield...living there. No offence meant to you, ser."

Sandor bristled but unexpectedly it was Sansa who replied first. For the first time she spoke up without a tremor of fear or anxiety. "That is not acceptable. He's my loyal sworn shield – sworn to protect me. He's laid his sword at my feet and I will not part from him. He must be given lodgings."

Giacomo shuffled on his feet and looked uncomfortably at his sister. "One of our groundskeeper's has taken a leave of absence to be with his family. I suppose you may assume his quarters until he returns," he offered awkwardly. "But if I hear a single complaint..."

"I have no interest in your painted puppets," Sandor cut off coldly. He wouldn't even  _look_  at one of the courtesans if it meant staying at the little bird's side. "If the Sealord sees fit to place Eddard Stark's daughter in a bloody whorehouse I will be at her side in case  _anything_  goes awry." With one last hard look at the owner he gestured for Sansa to step aside with him. Only once they were away from the duo did he speak, "I don't like how they look at you. I don't trust them – or their stinking guards."

"If anyone lays a hand on me you can cut them to ribbons, like you did to that man in the mob." The smile she sent him was so mischievous that it made his heart skip a beat although as quickly as it came it was replaced by one of apprehension. "What if I need you in the night?"

They had become so accustomed to sleeping only a wall away from one another. Sometimes, on quiet nights, he heard the squeaks of her bed as she tossed and turned in some nightmare. On rare occasions he overheard her sob. "I cannot follow you, little bird, you heard what they said. The dogs are kept outside."

"I'll sneak out every night to see you," she finally swore. "We're tied together now."

And so Sansa Stark went to live in the Palace of Silk. Sandor was left alone in a small bedchamber on the ground floor and after getting roaring drunk had smashed up most of the furniture. He'd woken up the next morning embarrassed by his weaknesses.

And yet only the following day she came to him. He would've been happier if it weren't for the tears running down her puffy cheeks. She'd come disguised as a commoner with a brown coarse shawl disguising her hair although nothing she wore could've hidden her distressed expression. She collapsed into fresh tears on the threshold so he had to carry her like a child over to the warm fire. In whispers and sobs she told him that her brother and lady mother were both dead. The owner of the palace Giacomo Costa had come to her earlier in the day to reveal the horrible truth and since then she'd locked herself away until she could fly here to him.

"The Frey's," she sobbed. "They tricked them."

Robb Stark had slighted the Frey family by choosing to marry another and in doing so made a foe of Walder Frey. He'd tricked Robb and their mother Catelyn into attending another wedding only to have them murdered during the feast. "They stabbed Robb through the heart and then slit my mother's throat," she explained tearfully. "All because my brother chose another. They're backstabbers! Traitors! I wish they were all dead!"

Sandor held her as she poured out her anguish and sorrow onto his chest. He remembered the time when he was just eight years old when his own sister had died under what was presumed to be mysterious circumstances. His sister Eleanor had only been two years older than him yet she still tried to protect him from Gregor's wild temper. Ultimately it had cost her life. Eleanor had been a pretty little thing unlike her two brothers and in several ways the little bird reminded him of her; her kindness, her innocence, her sweet nature. He tightened his hold when he felt her slump against him and her deep breathing revealed that she had fallen asleep. He dared to rest his ruined cheek upon her silky head and spent the night gently combing her hair with his fingers.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa goes to live in the Palace of Silk

 

Sansa was given her own rooms which were beautifully furnished with the very best of everything and as promised two guards were stationed by her doors at all times, which was considerate if not mildly intrusive. She delighted in lounging back against the goose stuffed pillows that adorned her bed and the silky sheets, grateful for the softness that caressed her skin once more. Besides the bed she had several chests to store her clothes – of which she had very few, her own vanity glass, and a small reception room where she could greet any visitors although she did not expect many. Ginevra Rossi had been especially kind to her by going out of her way to provide extra comforts. On the evening of her arrival she had been bathed in a glorious bathtub made from marble as black as coal and been pampered to her hearts delight. Her tangled hair was washed with sweet smelling oils and lotions as smooth as milk softened up her skin. Afterwards she slipped into a very grown up robe of pink lace which would've once made her blush but as she stood surrounded by these sophisticated women she took it as her dues. She hadn't felt as refreshed and clean as this in a long time as the meagre wash room at the canal house had no door and she'd been too nervous to undress. And yet every delight was always followed by a flash of guilt – for why should she be so pampered when her family were in the ground?

As she sprinkled her neck with lavender oil she recalled her last conversation with Sandor,

"I've made a mistake," she'd mumbled. It was the morning after she'd fallen asleep on Sandor's chest and had woken embarrassed and weary. There was also a trace of guilt as her dreams had been sugar sweet while her family lay dead under the earth. "I don't like being so far from your side. The women at the palace, they peer at me like I'm a caged beast and the guards frown so. My parents would be so ashamed..." She'd trailed off at the thought of her parents.

"You're surviving," Sandor had pointed out gruffly.

" _I_  feel ashamed."

"I sometimes wish we were still in our canal home but this is the best place for you. Even I have to admit that." The sigh he'd made was so low it seemed to shake him. "If you stay with me, little bird, you'll turn wild like that brat of a sister of yours. You're a lady."

"But you  _hate_  ladies."

"Only the stupid kind."

"I ran to Cersei and told her of my father's plans. Even at the time I felt it was wrong – I felt sneaky. I was a fool."

"You could never be like Cersei, Sansa. She believes she is untouchable but really she's just a pretty cunt with no grasp on anything. The people hate her. One day you will become a great lady but you'll have the heart and courage to be beloved," he looked stricken then, as though in pain. "They'll love you."

She'd shuffled uncomfortably at that. "She told me once that a woman's power lay between her legs. That fear controlled the people. I vowed then that I'd make people love me instead."

"These women can teach you things...ways of women. I can't look after you like they can. I'm a sword hand. I kill people. I know nothing of refinement."

"Maybe I no longer wish to be a lady."

"It's in your blood. You're a Stark," he'd raised an eyebrow at that and his lips twitched as though he wished to smirk. "You have the blood of the first men in your veins. You cannot run from your birth, believe me – I've tried all my bloody life. One day you will return to Westeros and take back your birthright but in order to do that you'll need to learn things I can't give to you."

She'd been surprised by his train of thought. Back in King's Landing he'd mocked the Knights, aristocracy, and even the king. "Why do you care so much about my claim? You hate nobility."

"This war sickens me. I've had a stomach full of lies and deceit. Your kindness and honesty is what the world needs."

 _I am a Lady of the North, born in ice and snow_ , she thought to herself,  _the North will remember me_.

Slowly but surely Sansa thrived in the Palace of Silk. Every morning she was awoken by her handmaidens, two pretty girls around the same age as she, who bathed and dressed her in beautiful silks and jewellery. She usually spent the mornings with Ginny discussing idle gossip and the other courtesans and took turns around the exotic gardens as to admire the exotic plants. In the afternoons she would occasionally join the apprentice courtesans for their lessons in flower arranging or the high bells, but she excluded herself from anything more...courtesan like. Her talents grew with every day. She became accomplished on the harp, learnt the traditional dances of the Free Cities, and learnt all sorts of new etiquette...such as how to say no in a ladylike manner or how to refuse marriage proposals without offending the lord. Her courtesies became more refined and her confidence grew with each victory. Soon enough she started to walk like the other women with the movements and grace of a women completely at ease in her maturing body. She had first tried to imitate the women back in the Purple Harbour with their swaying hips but Ginny told her quite sternly about the importance of elegance.

 _You must be alluring_ , she'd preached,  _but refined also_.  _Let them see the straightness of your back and the bearing in your shoulders. You are becoming a woman. Move like you own the world._

She appreciated being around other young girls again and the easy friendships she found. She didn't fully trust them, the only person she could trust now was Sandor, but she enjoyed their company. They would giggle and whisper under their breaths so that the tutors wouldn't hear, and slowly – very slowly - with each passing day her grief began to numb... because no matter how hard she tried life inevitably continued, although every now and then she would remember that she was in truth alone and she would cry herself to sleep.

Weeks turned into months and soon enough a year had passed since her escape from King's Landing. She was a maiden of thirteen and every morning she saw her reflection become more and more like her mother's. On the morning of her name day she visited the glittering pools of the Palace's winding gardens and the quiet hush she found was eerily like the reassuring silence of the Godswood back in Winterfell. The willowy trees looked so new and glossy that they stood straight up like soldiers and the pool itself was cold and blue. Sansa had always preferred her mother's gods although there was something about the Godswood that commanded respect. The silence here was likewise delicious. Sansa knelt down beside the pool and looked into the cool depths – thinking about her late father. Would he be proud of the woman she was becoming? She thought about how different her life would be if Joffrey had shown him mercy.  _If he hadn't been a lying snake_ , she scoffed. She'd been a fool to put her trust in the Lannisters and she blamed herself for Eddard Stark's fate. If she hadn't run tattling to Cersei about her father's plans to leave King's Landing...but then how was she to know that people could lie? None of the stories had prepared her for man's sly nature. Arya wouldn't have trusted them, she decided. Nor Bran, or Jon. Even little Rickon would have stamped his feet to get his way. Only Robb had trusted the Frey's and he'd been deceived and buried headless. She was an idiot just like Joffrey said.

She took off her velvet gloves and gently traced the water's surface with one finger. "I never meant for you to die, Papa," she whispered. "I should've fought them. Arya did. But I won't make the same mistake again, I promise. I'm a wolf...just like the rest of them. I'm no little chirping bird..." She hoped that someone was listening but there was nothing but the hush.

Yet her father had found solace in the silence. She'd seen him go to the Godswood countless times – sometimes staying all day and night – to talk to his gods. She wondered what he'd prayed for...did he pray for his children? His father and brother, both murdered ruthlessly by the Mad King? His sister, lost at only sixteen? He'd brought her and Arya sometimes but they had both grown too restless to stay long.

"Don't be disappointed with me," she continued quietly as her thoughts turned to her mother. "I had to hide, Mama. I can't fight like you. Not yet."

She still saw her mother and eldest brother in her dreams. She had been spared the more horrible details but she could imagine their screams and pleads as the traitor Bolton's and Frey's cut them down. She'd heard a whisper that Grey Wind had been killed too and wondered if any of his brothers or sisters were alive to mourn him with their howls. She thought it strange that Lady had been killed first but she, Sansa, was the last of the pack now.

"I'll avenge you. All of you." She felt herself start to sob and her tears dripped down into the water.

"Revenge won't heal your heart."

She jumped when she heard his rough voice and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her dress like a child. "They deserve it."

He sat beside her by the water's edge and she looked away so that he wouldn't see her wet eyes. She didn't want him to think her weak even though he was the only one she turned to. He was dressed in a rough spun pair of dark breeches and a woollen tunic that must've boiled him in the daytime heat. She herself was wearing a white plain dress of lace with Myrish cuffs, preferring to wear Westeros dress outside instead of the sheer Braavosi gowns. She'd leant weeks ago that in Braavos wearing bold colours signalled poverty while the rich here wore dull pale colours – strange when compared to Westeros fashion. She couldn't imagine Cersei Lannister in grey.

"Who do?"

"The Frey's," she replied immediately. "The Bolton's. Theon Greyjoy. Ser Illyn, the Queen, Joff."

"What about Tywin Lannister? And Littlefinger, he betrayed your father to Cersei. There's also the eunuch, of course, who sells secrets and lies to the highest bidder..." he pointed out. "Are you going to kill them all, Sansa?"

She made no reply but couldn't ignore his meaning. She knew it was impractical but her blood ran hot whenever she thought of the people who had done her family wrong. "You act as though you want revenge on everybody," she murmured, but her tone was soft to show she was joking.

Sandor grinned. The sight was even more hideous than his usual scowl but Sansa found that she hardly saw the burns anymore. It was easy to forget about when she saw him every day. They were just part of him. "Perhaps, but there's no hope for men like me."

"Men like you?"

"Men who find happiness at the bottom of a bottle, or in the blood of other men."

"Once upon a time you were a little boy with big ideas about the world," she pointed out timidly.

"No, little bird, I was never like that. Gregor squashed that out of me as a babe."

"And Elinor? What about her?"

He looked as though she'd thrown icy water over his head but she determinedly held his gaze. She'd heard whispers about his siblings – one as tall as a mountain, hailed across the kingdoms as one of the most brutal knights alive, while the other was mysteriously left out from the gossip. He often said her name in his sleep as well, although she'd rather not mention that.

"My sister. She died when I was young."

Sansa didn't ask how – there was a shadow in his eye that warned her off – so instead she asked, "What was she like?"

"Kind. Sweet. Innocent," he replied. "Though I confess her face escapes my memory now. She might've been pretty, though I doubt it. The Clegane's aren't renown for their looks."

"You're angry about something. About what happened to her," she guessed quietly, absentmindedly shredding a leaf. She imaged herself at Sandor's age, which she presumed to be around thirty, and still filled with such hate but disliked it. Her father wasn't like that nor was her mother although Catelyn Tully could certainly hold a grudge. "So you take it out on yourself and the world, when really you just want revenge...Maybe we should both try to forget the past."

"And what? Think of the future?" He snorted.

"Exactly." Sansa smiled. She placed her hand above his but he moved away as though stung. The look Sansa gave him was confused but he steadily ignored her gaze and watched the pool instead. Just as she was about to ask him what was wrong Ginny's voice called out to her.

"My Lady. The Sealord desires your presence. He's just arrived."

Sansa rolled her eyes, "Time to play nice with the rich lord. He expects me to wait on him hand and foot in exchange for letting me stay here. Marcelo can be kind but he's so arrogant sometimes."

"Greedy men can be. He's a glutton."

"Will you come?" she asked and was disappointed that he shook his head.

"You go, little bird. I have work to do in the grounds."

So she spent the afternoon at the Sealord's side listening to him complain about the Iron Throne's cheek and the new delivery of perfume he'd just received from Lys. "Have you ever been to Lys, sweetling? I have ordered several of their singers for your name day gift."

"Never, my lord. This is my first time in the Free Cities."

"A shame. A pretty enough place. I have a friend from Pentos visiting the palace this afternoon if you would do me the honour of joining us. He's here to try and sell me some horses and only half of them will be worthy enough to ride," Marcelo predicted sourly. "Though that can hardly be helped. The people of Pentos give their good stallions to the Dothraki."

Sansa had heard vague tales of the Dothraki but knew almost nothing concrete about them. Her father had once mentioned that they were horse lords and were afraid of invading the Seven Kingdoms because of the sea. Arya had scoffed at that but as it didn't involve Joffrey, the court, or Knights Sansa had paid it little attention at the time. She agreed to accompany the Sealord that afternoon but when she stole upstairs to get ready she found a package on her bed.

"Leah?" she called to her youngest handmaid. "Who left this package here?"

"Giacomo Costa, my lady. For your name day. He dropped it here after you left for luncheon." Leah had the dark rich skin of those from the Summer Isles and her large doe like eyes were pure honey. Sansa had been shocked to discover that she was only twelve.

The package was wrapped in black velvet and she carefully unfolded the rich cloth to reveal a mass of delicate white lace. She quickly wiped her hands on her skirts before picking it up and found it to be a veil. The lace was so sheer that she could see the pink of her hand beneath it but so light that it quivered under her breath. It was plain except for the pattern of flowers near the hem. "A veil?" she murmured. Leah must have overheard her for she appeared at her side.

"May I, my Lady?

Sansa nodded and the young girl arranged the veil so that it lightly draped over Sansa's features. It was so delicate that up close you could see all of her features but if you looked at her from far away her she would be hidden. "A mask," she realised. "To hide me away. But won't this just attract attention?"

"You rarely notice what's in front of your eyes," Leah advised. "People will assume you are just one of us. There. Don't walk too fast or it'll fall off," she advised.

Sansa agreed and she slowly made her way down to the palace courtyard to accompany the Sealord, who looked pleased by her new accessory. "The commoners will call you the Veiled Women. You'll be one of our most notorious courtesans."

"In name only, my lord," she replied quietly and he chuckled. They waited for only a moment before Sandor arrived to accompany them but the look he gave her in her veil was one of surprise and confusion.

The Pentoshi man in question turned out to be a comely man of almost three and twenty though his beauty was diminished, in Sansa's opinion, by his dyed forked yellow beard. She thought it looked ridiculous but held her tongue; it was not up to her to question other customs and he looked like a formidably strong man despite it. She was introduced under her new pseudonym and Sansa briefly wondered if this would always be her name from now on.

"A veiled woman. How devilishly mysterious. You have quite peaked my curiously, my lady," he greeted as he kissed her hand. "Unless you're pox ridden. Or is it the Grey Touch?"

"Neither," she assured him. "I am a modest woman."

"Delicious," he repeated and gave her an amused smile. Sansa could just imagine Sandor's scowl. He would hate this man for his easy grace and flirting manner though Sansa had been pre warned about the boldness of Pentoshi men.

They sat in the Sealord's grand glass conservatory which housed a number of exotic birds in cages and even a small chimp who could clap his hands when commanded. Sansa admired the creatures but felt uneasy when she saw the chain attached to the chimp's ankle. She'd been warned of that too though found it harder to not question. Marcelo settled himself down on several plump cushions and gestured for a nearby servant to bring forth some wine glasses. "I do miss the Arbour vintages although this Myrish sweet wine is passable enough. Do take a cup."

Sansa only had a small sip of hers although it was indeed very sweet. Sandor took a seat beside her on the reclining pillows but looked as out of place here as he would in a summer dance. Sansa remembered how he'd pulled away from her that morning and again wondered what she could have possibly done this time to irritate him. By now she considered him to be a close friend and was wounded that he would still shy away from her after everything. She watched as the chimp bounded over to the Pentoshi, who laughed and held out his cup for the chimp to drink out of.

"...Dragons..."

She was instantly distracted by that one word and looked to Marcelo. "I hear she travels with a three headed dragon," he was saying. "Illyrio Mopatis took her in when she was a child. He assures me he is still her confident."

"Illyrio is a cheesemonger," the Pentoshi scorned. "The Mother of Dragons would sooner roast him for dragon fooder than listen to him."

"Who are you talking about?" Sansa asked, heart hammering. A real life dragon?

"Deanerys Targaryen," Marcelo replied, a huge smile on his plump lips. "The Stormborn. They say her dragons will sweep all of Westeros once more and feast on those who have wronged her family. The most beautiful woman in the world."

"The Mad King's brat?" Sandor put in, sounding scornful. "The Targaryen's are dead. My own brother saw to that."

"Then pray you never get in her path, ser," the Pentoshi scowled. "I can see that you are not new to the flame. Fire will not fail a second time."

Sansa saw Sandor's hand reach for his sword belt and put her hand on his arm to stop him. It would do no good to bear arms here.

"Will she stay here in the Free Cities?" she asked, although could guess to the answer. If Deanerys did indeed own a dragon why would she limit herself to this place when she could take over the Seven Kingdoms? All she needed to do was to climb on top of her giant beast and fly over. The thought of Cersei Lannister and Joffrey facing a dragon made her mouth twitch.

"No, no, sweet lady. It is said the Mother of Dragons will reclaim the Iron Throne with fire and blood. She has already achieved much and her ambition is high. Next she will turn to the Seven Kingdoms."

"Winter is nowhere to be seen," the Sealord quipped in and the look he gave Sansa was one of pity and amusement. He bit into a ripe peach and its juices ran down his chins. "In fire and blood."


	7. Chapter 7

 

The next day Giacomo Costa and his sister visited Sansa in her rooms and found the girl sitting on her balcony with her sworn shield. She was sat back against a carved chair with her head flung backwards, listening peacefully as he read to her in his deep tones. "I much prefer the old histories," she murmured lazily. "You're so good to read for me."

The large man snorted. "I remember when your tales ran to Southeron tales of knights and fair maidens."

"Thankfully my taste has matured," Sansa remarked, but then noticed the two visitors. "Giacomo, Ginny...come in. There's a flagon of lemon water on the table." She quickly collected the loaned books and packed them away in her trunk.

Sansa busied herself with welcoming the two adults and asked for two more seats to be moved onto the balcony. From here she had a beautiful view of the Isle of the Gods although when lit the Temple of the Red God was a bit of an eyesore. Yet on mornings such as this, before the burnings, it was quite pleasant to sit here in the morning sun. She'd even coaxed one of the Palace cooks into making her lemon water. This morning she was dressed in a light gauzy dress of pale blue that flowed out around her body and her hair was pulled back with one of Ginny's borrowed combs of jade.

"You suit the Braavosi fashion, my dear," Ginny complimented. "Yet your sworn shield still prefers to wear leather and armour. You must roast in the day's sun, ser."

"It takes a fine sort of man to wear velvets and silks," Sandor replied sourly and they all chuckled – including Giacomo who was never seen out of silk.

"What's the news of the day?" Sansa asked as she refilled Sandor's cup.

"We have organised a celebration for this evening in honour of your nameday," Giacomo announced. "And the Sealord has contributed many of his entertainers. The dancers from Lys have arrived."

"My nameday!" Sansa shook her head. "Please, my Lord, Lady. I don't need any such celebration. I am but ten and three."

"A woman," Ginny interrupted and her red lips stretched into a grin. "It is only proper."

The previous week Sansa had been awoken during the night by her first flowering and, still half asleep, had screamed in shock. Ginny had been the one to calm and comfort her in the absence of her mother, and told her that she was now officially a woman. Sansa felt a strange sort of pride in the fact that she was now a maid flowered but it felt a little strange to mention it around men, especially Sandor. The huge man had been exceptionally unhelpful during that day, wincing whenever it was mentioned and scowling at the excited maids.

The entire palace had been invited, including the more famous courtesans and the handmaidens Sansa favoured the most. The Sealord himself was the guest of honour and he brought along several of the richest Braavosi as his own guests, as well as a couple of distinguished merchants and princes from afar - including the yellow bearded Pentoshi from the day before. Sansa got ready in her rooms and invited several of the apprentice courtesans to join her. They spent most of the afternoon pampering and bathing, with bowls of figs and dates to see them through until the feast.

"I can't wait to see the dancers," one of the girls gushed, a lithe beauty from Lys who was two years Sansa's senior. She and a younger girl were arranging Sansa's hair into elaborate curls as she sat before the looking glass, sipping a glass of sweet milk. "Whenever my father held feasts they would entertain." Durriyah had been the daughter of an important merchant who'd sold her after her flowering to the Palace of Silk. Sansa had been astonished to hear of such a thing but Durriyah reassured her that it had been a great privilege. "There are not many girls lucky enough to have the chance," she'd insisted.

"Singers rarely made the trip to Winterfell, and we had no dancers, nor mummers," Sansa admitted absently. "It was such a long journey and the weather usually drove back any who tried." She took no pains in hiding her birth among the handmaidens. They were all fond of the Costa's – or, at least, fond of their gold – and Sansa doubted they'd betray her secret. Besides, she would never have been able to keep the secret in a palace of gossiping girls and even if they did want to tell somebody the gates were always locked. Ginny would sniff out their intentions before they managed to put their slippers on.

"I've never seen snow but a poet told me it's like falling diamonds," Durriyah admitted.

Sansa smiled but did not correct her new friend.  _Snow is beautiful yes_ , she thought _, but deadly. It can freeze the breath in you._

They all dressed in the gauzy light dresses of Braavos except that tonight they also strung necklaces of fine jewels around their necks and hung pearls from their ears in honour of the feast, all gifts from their various patrons or admirers. One or two of the younger handmaidens went without jewels but were happy enough to experiment with different hairstyles and paint their lips pink. A girl named Nadia brushed a pale powder across Sansa's face and circled her eyes with a flick of liquid charcoal. On her cheeks she painted two streaks with rouge gloss and rubbed them in to make her look like a painted doll.

"Your skin is like milk," Nadia complimented, her accent heavy and thick. She had the darkest skin that Sansa had ever seen and her beautiful eyes were long and cat like. They looked as though they missed nothing. Sansa leant forward so that Nadia could string a necklace of amber around her neck and as she did so inhaled the other girl's exotic perfume. It spoke of sunsets and forbidden kisses. She complimented her on it and Nadia kindly dashed some on her neck, and then moved to gently rub a little on both Sansa's nipples. Sansa blushed and kept her gaze away but the older girl only giggled then turned the young Stark towards the mirror to look at herself.

The dress she was wearing was a sheer white and fell to the floor like a waterfall. It hung loosely about her growing body but as she turned she could see the outline and curves of her hips and breasts. A dress such as this would've once scandalised her but here she felt only glamorous. She wore golden sandals on her feet and two golden bands above her elbows in the Tyroshi fashion, which had been gifts from one of Giacommo's friends, and her hair was left loose so that it curled down her back. With her dress, her hair, and painted face she looked beautiful, exotic, and undoubtedly virginal. She wondered briefly what her mother would think of her new look.

She was about to thank Nadia for her help when a knock came from her door. "My ladies, the guests have begun to arrive," a servant warned. So instead she grinned at her new found friends and held out her hands.

"Let us dance."

The Palace of Silk had already been a beautiful building, but tonight the Costa's had outdone themselves. They'd hung new banners and tapestries from the walls (in subtle colours of Tully blue and red), brought in extra goose stuffed cushions for the shiny white floor, and the thick Dornish wine flowed generously. Best of all, they'd hired entertainers of all sorts to amuse the guests and Sansa had spent a good half an hour watching a Dothraki man  _swallow_  fire and juggle sharp knives on his chin. Afterwards there had been a mock show where two ugly dwarf's pretended to joulst from the backs of a pig and dog, but she'd turned away from the embarrassing display for it reminded her too much of the Lannister Imp.

She was not introduced as Sansa Stark as a celebration of this size would surely draw eyes from King's Landing but under the name of the Veiled Woman, an apparent favourite courtesan of Giacommo. She left the veil upstairs but was assured that all the makeup she was wearing would easily hide her identity.

Of course, Sansa knew none of more distinguished guests yet she managed to make a remarkable impression thanks to her ready smiles and courtesies. Many a man drew her into a dance and she laughed and giggled as she tried to remember the foreign steps. She was dancing in the arms of a young Braavosi man when Giacommo clapped his hands for silence. "Introducing the three great courtesans of Braavos, here to honour the Veiled Woman on her nameday."

The first courtesan seemed to be walking on air as she moved so gracefully forward. She was beautiful, as they all were, though her cheeks looked so sharp they might've been able to cut through glass. Her straight back and cool gaze made Sansa feel instantly intimidated. She was known as the Poetess, dressed as always in her favourite sombre black and gold, and accompanied by her current paramour, an exiled Tyroshi prince, who walked proudly beside her. She gave Sansa a quick nod before taking her seat on the raised dias at the front of the hall. Sansa joined the others in clapping as the next two joined the first at the front.

The Moonshadow was serene and gentle in white lace and the smiling Merling Queen was accompanied like always by a dozen little handmaidens, who scattered rose petals where they walked. She had never spoken to these women, she would never have dared, but they had their own rooms and handmaidens on the other side of the palace and they often spent their time away entertaining their clients. They were the very essence of longing, the very embodiment of desire, and every woman, including Sansa, paled in comparison.

Sansa lowered her hands and was about to ask her partner if she could sit down but then felt somebody's gaze on her. She looked up and grinned when she saw Sandor making his way through the crowds towards her.

For once she forgot her courtesies and, ignoring her partner, closed the distance between them. "You came! I thought you'd shun it."

He looked uncomfortable but was desperately trying to hide it. Sansa studied his garb and found to her surprise that he was wearing the silken dress of the Braavosi for once. The navy blue shirt stretched across his wide chest and accentuated his strong arms, while the dark cotton breeches were tucked into heavy boots of bronze. For once, he wore no sword belt. He looked as fine as any Braavosi lord...but Sansa found herself strangely missing the rough spun tunics and boiled armour which had protected her more than once.

"You look..." she started, but trailed off when she realised she was about to say  _gallant_.

"Like a fool?" he suggested and looked down at himself with a scowl. "I feel it."

"Don't." She slowly reached out to take his clenched hand. She moved it to her waist and took the other in her spare hand. Her gown was so thin that she could feel the heat from his palm on her skin.

"I thought you preferred the dances of the Free Cities now?" he murmured.

"We aren't of the Free Cities," Sansa reminded him with a smile. "We will dance like this again when I reclaim Winterfell. This I swear."

Without a word he led her into a traditional dance of the Seven Kingdoms and the other couples recognised the steps and joined them, laughing at the hilarity of it. They moved as one, their steps correct and precise. Sansa had learnt this dance as a child with an unwilling Arya and she remembered how on her eighth name day Robb had stepped in to whirl her about. Afterwards Jon had offered his hand but she'd refused him with a childish arrogance because he was only a bastard. She regretted that more than she'd known, especially now as Jon was now her only living family. She wondered if he was still at the Wall and whether he knew about Winterfell.

She looked up into her closest friends face and wished she could smooth out his lips into a smile. She cared about him deeply and was touched that he was trying so hard to fit in with tonight for her sake. She squeezed his hand so that he looked up at her instead of at his feet and winked.

She began to lead him in the opposite direction with a quickness that surprised him. He caught on after that and even lifted his arm to spin her around. The musicians behind them saw what she was doing and hurried their pace to match, while the observers clapped and encouraged them.

Sandor didn't smile though his eyes softened and by the end of the song he had lost some of the tenseness that stilled his body.

Sansa laughed, throwing her head back with pure enjoyment as the crowds laughed with her. She gave Sandor a playful curtsey and let him lead her away from the floor.

"That was wonderful," she beamed as she tried to catch her breath. Her chest heaved with the effort and she had to take some sweet wine from one of the passing servants to cool down with. She felt her cheek and saw that she'd smudged her face paint, though could hardly care when so happy.

"I wanted to make you happy," he admitted gruffly. "I had no gift to give you other than this."

The thought made her eyes swim. "It was the best." And then she kissed him.

It was a simple chaste kiss on the cheek but by the way he dodged her and drew back Sansa felt as though she'd slapped him. The look he threw at her was one of pure fear and before she could question him he'd turned to shoulder through the crowds. "Sandor!" she called, alarmed, but he'd disappeared amongst the new faces.

She now felt as though she'd been drenched in cold water from the canals and the smile slid off her face.

"My Lady!" Durriyah approached and Sansa could tell from her glazed eyes that she'd sipped a cup too many. "What a beautiful night. I've had about a dozen marriage proposals, at least," she giggled.

"Congratulations," Sansa replied quietly, straining to look after Sandor. There! Wasn't that his navy shirt? "Excuse me, Durriyah."

"But where are you going?"

Sansa ignored her and pushed through the crowds towards the place she'd thought she'd seen Sandor. "Sandor?" she called. Since when had the singing been so loud? The musicians seemed to be playing so loudly now...and the fire eaters were making the hall hot and uncomfortable. She came across the Sealord with his chimp pet chained to hand but ignored his attempts to address her.

"My lady? What's amiss?"

She didn't know. That's why she was panicking.

She eventually managed to leave the hall and hurried outside to the gardens. Sandor was staying in one of the little gardener's houses by the back gate so she hurried towards it, thinking of how several of the apprentice courtesans snuck out here to meet their various lovers. The heels of her sandals were sinking into the grass and she knew that she was dirtying her dress. She wondered why Sandor had left her. As a grown man he had every right to be alone when he wanted but it just felt wrong to her. He  _never_  left her like this. Especially when upset which is what seemed to be happening. The look he'd given her had been one of fear...it was a look she was not used to seeing.

She came to his house and was about to burst in through the door when she heard a noise that made her flinch back.

A sob.

She recognised that type of sobbing. It was the type that racked your body and left you gulping for air.

She felt her stomach drop and she thought quickly about turning back and leaving him. But she couldn't.

She moved closer to the door and peeped through the gap. It had obviously been left ajar by those inside it, as they hurried to undress.

There was her sworn shield, partially naked - but  _sobbing_  onto the shoulder of a dark skinned woman. Nadia.

Sandor didn't seem to notice that his tears were dripping down onto the woman's bare breasts. His strong arms were holding onto Nadia's tightly, she could see his muscles taunt in the moonlight, and the cords of his neck were tense as he cried. Nadia was murmuring soothing words in a foreign tongue.

She stepped away from the house and realised she too was crying.

Even when she was back in her rooms she couldn't stop the flow of tears and when Leah drunkenly crawled into bed later she pretended to sleep.

Her thoughts were a whirl and she had to bite her lip in the darkness as to not wake her bedfellow. Her very veins seemed to be pumping a poison around her body that made her feel sick.

She felt like she was turning to stone. As though the Grey Touch was choking her.

When Sansa awoke late in the morning she was still fully dressed and her eyes were puffy and red. Her handmaidens later asked her what was wrong but she lied and blamed it on too much Dornish wine. She was numbly sitting in the bathroom tub when Leah approached. Sansa shivered when she noticed the note.

"Who?" she whispered, but knew the answer already.

Afterwards she would rip up the paper and throw the pieces into the fire.

_I'm leaving, little bird, though I swore to you I wouldn't. It would not be the first time I've broken a vow._

_I told you before that you shouldn't put your hopes in me. I am a man without honour. Without peace._

_Stay safe and do not leave the palace. Don't do anything stupid._

_I'll be back for you._

_S_


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa explores.

 

So it was that Sansa Stark was once again alone.

Of course, she was not completely alone – the palace of Silk was a hive of activity in one of the busiest cities in the land. Handmaidens and apprentices drifted in and out of her rooms all day with gossip and small lemon cakes, there were lessons in dancing and languages that she might sit in, and the Sealord Marcelo continued to politely dote on her. It was nothing like her cruel time back in King's Landing. She felt no restrictions or backstabbing and there was no Spider to watch her steps or record her words. Instead, she stumbled through the motions but it felt as though she was merely acting once again. There was always somebody to talk to, although the only person she really wanted was Sandor.

She spent another year in the palace growing older and even taller. It was on a pale spring morning that they heard the news of King Joffrey's death. They listened, silent, as the spice merchant sprouted the details of his death; somebody had poisoned him on the eve of his wedding day.

Inside Sansa had felt like laughing and was therefore surprised to find herself in tears. Joffrey had tormented, humiliated, and had his guards physically abuse her but all she could do was stay on her balcony crying. She recalled his golden curls and wormy fat lips that had once kissed her. She remembered the day back in Winterfell when he'd mock-fought her brother Robb; the two had looked so differently beside one another but had gone on to die in similar ways. She'd thought of him as a true gallant prince in shining gold armour who'd whisked her away from her mournful dreary life in Winterfell. She had once thought that life wasn't fair, that the monsters always won, but that hadn't been true...even the villain's lost sometimes. A part of her, the part that kept looking back at her life before Braavos, died that day.

Ginny asked her why she mourned the passing of such a cruel king and Sansa replied in an achingly sad murmur, "He was my childhood."

She wondered what the Lannister's were doing now. Cersei would push her younger son forward for the throne, little Tommen, so that the Lannister's could hold onto power and if the gossip was true he would wed Joffrey's widow Margaery Tyrell to preserve the Tyrell alliance. She had liked little Tommen with his white fluffy kittens. She wished him luck and that this time his mother's scheming would not lead to his death. Too much innocent blood had been spilt already. News arrived late here in Braavos and she usually heard it from the Sealord or one of his council. Sandor had asked her to stay in the palace but she still journeyed to the Sealord's Palace roughly once a week to dine and be entertained, often alongside some visiting ambassador or rich merchant who would rudely devourer her with his eyes when he thought she was looking elsewhere.

Her next nameday was celebrated much more quietly. She spent the day in the sunny gardens and the night feasting with a few close companions. She was now fifteen and felt every year of it. She grew taller so that she was of the same height as Giacomo and her body continued to mature and change. She initially felt clumsy with her new curves and long limbs but adjusted to them as gracefully as she did with most things. Yet she started to avoid looking in the mirror and instructed her handmaidens to brush her hair away from it. She now looked like the very image of her late mother and hated the constant reminder. Perhaps her forehead resembled her father's but other than that she was pure Tully with her clear blue eyes and thick auburn hair, even the shape of her face resembled her lady mother's. Her brother's had all favoured the Tully look but she wondered if Jon Snow looked any more like their father now he was a man grown.  _It would be so sweet to see him_ , she would think,  _though he would no doubt resent me for my treatment towards him. I always did try to copy Mother..._ Yet he was her only surviving family, unless she counted her mother's family but she hadn't seen any of them in years. Robb and Theon Greyjoy had often poked fun of Lysa Tully for her odd ways.  _Perhaps she'll rally to my cause. She has the strength of the Vale behind her...or perhaps uncle Edmure and the Blackfish might help me._ She had never met her great uncle.

The Sealord Marcelo would sometimes mention her return to the Seven Kingdoms.

"Perhaps next year you'll be sat comfortably back in Winterfell, hm?"

"I doubt it, my lord, Winterfell has been sacked. I'm told it lays in ruin," she would reply carefully. "It'll be sometime before it is restored to its former glory and for that I'll need many men."

She felt nervous whenever he raised the issue of her return, as though he wanted her to leave immediately. She liked to think that he enjoyed her company but sometimes had to remind herself that it was only her claim he entertained. Had she been a simple girl with a bastard's name he would've sent her straight back into Cersei's claws.

"Many a man has enquired as to how much your ladyship's hand might be in marriage. A strong Braavosi could be just the thing you need. You will certainly want for no money."

"I thank them for their attentions but I am still young," she'd politely reply. "I would like to be returned, comfortable in my own home, before I look to marry."

On her fifteenth name day the Sealord took her and Giacomo to visit Pentos with him. It was the furthest journey she'd taken since her flight from King's Landing but was reasonably more comfortable. She rode in what looked to her like a luxurious wheelhouse but instead of a roof it was covered by a light gauzy fabric to keep the sun off her head. It was pulled along by three large oxen but the Sealord's servants walked alongside her to move them along. She felt a little guilty reclining back on the soft pillows whilst the servants walked bareheaded in the sun but when she asked one of them to join her they'd flushed and hurried off to walk ahead. After that she insisted they stop for regular breaks but made no further offers. The journey took two weeks to complete although Leah, who she'd brought along as her maid, insisted it could've been managed in a couple of days. "But he has to bring servants for his servants, and many gifts for those he wishes to bribe," she'd murmured from beside her as they peeped out at their large train. "It is not the Braavosi who vote him in."

Leah was fast becoming one of her closest friends and Sansa had sorely missed the intimacy of having a best friend. Leah was a pretty girl of fourteen years and like most handmaids came from a humble background. Her parents had offered her to the Palace as an apprentice courtesan but she'd been too small and skinny to tempt Giacomo. Instead she'd been taken on as a handmaiden, a decision that Leah seemed relieved about. "I was just pleased to leave my father," Leah had admitted. "The courtesans are so beautiful but all that dressing and idleness would bore me to tears. Imagine having to sleep with a man old enough to be your grandfather." Her words were blunt – nobody ever referred to the courtesan's main nocturnal activities – but Sansa found her honesty refreshing. Leah seemed to enjoy her company too for she would spend many of her free hours with Sansa and had once silenced a couple of the handmaidens from speculating about Sansa's relationship with Sandor. She often shared her bed too and never complained when Sansa awoke breathlessly from a nightmare – instead she would pour her a glass of chilled water and calm her back to sleep. She was somebody who lightened Sansa's heart.

The only thing similar about Pentos and Braavos was the heat. Pentos was a large city made from thick white brick and the buildings reached high towards the sky in elegant columns. The man who met them at the Sunrise Gates spoke a peculiar accent that Leah informed her was called Bastard Valyrian. Inside the city walls there were thin citizens scowling as they passed and bare footed children ran alongside the train begging for bread. Behind the row of cheap looking shops was a large red tent with a grey cross painted on its front. Leah enquired about it and they discovered that it housed the citizens with the flux. Even Sansa knew about the flux and how contagious it could be. "It is just like King's Landing," Sansa murmured. "Why doesn't the lord in charge do something about this? They're left to die."

"Pentos is ruled over by a prince, my lady. As long as the wealthy stay rich there is little concern for the plight of others."

Sansa remembered the day back in King's Landing when Joffrey had been pelted with a cow pat. The people had been starving, yes, but not to this extreme. There were people here laying in the gutters as their children tried to lift them up. She hated the way the mother's looked at her as they clutched their starving babies. "We should help them," she said, and rooted amongst her things for her small purse but Leah grabbed her wrist to stop her.

"No, my lady. You throw a coin out into the crowds and they'll kill each other for it. You'll make a mob of them."

They were staying at the grand home of one of the Sealord's richest friends Illyrio Pentus. The merchant was a polite man of a considerable size and beside the Sealord it was difficult to determine who was the more obese. When he leant down to kiss her hand in greeting, his light eyes twinkled as though privy to a great jest. "My dear, it is an honour to have you here in my home. I am at your service."

"I thank you," she greeted and tried to look humble though he smelt of sour cheese and powder. "I have heard much of your political prowess. I look forward to knowing you better."

And he promised it would be so.

That night she asked him about the Dragon Queen, the Stormborn Lady, the One of Fire and Blood. Talk concerning her was ripe and she found herself curious even though she found it hard to believe that the dragons were real. It was more likely just a tactic to spread fear – after all, the Targaryen's had been fashioning themselves as dragons for centuries. She recalled that Bran had been the one to nag Old Nan for tales about dragons and far away cities while she'd been content to hear of only knights and the summer. She knew nothing of dragons, except that Aegon I and his sisters had conquered the Seven Kingdoms with them and that they were supposedly all extinct now.

"Ah. You may think so, pretty one, but my information has never been incorrect. I've heard a hundred tales coming back from the East and all the same. With one dragon Daenerys Targaryen could conquer the Seven Kingdoms, but with  _three_..."

"She sounds like a very fearsome maid."  _Arya would've liked her_.

"She is no maid. In fact I attended her first marriage myself. Her brother Viserys wed her to the great Khal Drogo in exchange for an army. He was a foolish boy. Everybody knows a Dothraki Khal will take orders from no one. Especially a penniless Westerosi."

She was  _exchanged_  for an army by her own brother, Sansa wondered. She tried to picture her brothers doing the same and felt a twinge in her gut when she thought of her brother Robb. He'd captured the Kingslayer Jaime Lannister in battle but instead of exchanging him for Sansa he had left her to wait in King's Landing to answer to Cersei's wrath.  _He was worth more to him than I was_ , she realised but tried to struggle against the feeling of betrayal.  _If he'd lived he would've exchanged for me at some point and he had no reason to think I was being mistreated...he was just biding his time. He was at war – he had more important things to worry about and the other Northmen would think him foolish to exchange the Kingslayer for a mere girl. Tactics, an army, a bride, a broken betrothal..._ No, she would not taint her memory of Robb with these accusations. He had been sixteen at his death, only a year older than she. Hardly a man grown.

"It is no wonder you are speechless," Illyrio smiled and his skin sagged around his mouth. "Daenerys Targaryen is the widow of a Dothraki Khal, a mother of dragons and a sacker of cities, Aegon the Conqueror with teats...Some day you might just meet her." _*_

She thought of Daenerys facing Cersei Lannister in a temper. Cersei had been all fire but could she match this exotic dragon queen? She would pay dearly to see it.

Over the week Sansa explored Pentos by riding out through the city and the surrounding lands. She discovered there was a very large divide between the rich and everybody else. Back home there had been bakers, blacksmiths, tutors...people with a trade who made just enough to live comfortably, but there were no such people here. She tried to heed Leah's words at first but by the second day she took her purse with her and quietly gave coppers out to some of the hungriest looking mother's. Instead of turning into a vicious mob they looked at her like she was a mad woman and rushed off without even a thank you. She asked Giacomo who the prince was and why he allowed his subjects to starve.

"The politics of Pentos differs from Braavosi law and the custom you exercise in the Seven Kingdoms," he replied, pouring them both a glass of sweet wine from the barrel he'd brought along with him from the palace. "There are forty great families in Pentos. Mostly merchant's who have rose high like Illyrio, a few court judges, magistrates...occasionally a very rich customs officer. Between them a prince is chosen by vote. The role is mostly ceremonial, leaving the magistrates the power to rule instead. A wise decision," he added when he saw her astonished expression. "The current prince Pietro is a fool – a  _rich_  fool, of course – but a fool nonetheless. His bastards are scattered across the entire Western coast."

"Can they not just elect another prince?" Sansa asked.

"A prince must serve for life, my lady. Of course, if the Gods are angry and gift them with a bad harvest or a loss at war they can sacrifice the prince to appease them. Usually by slitting the throat."

 _Is there anywhere that doesn't reek of schemes?_  Sansa thought, but held her tongue and took a sip of wine instead.

She met the prince a week after arriving. He invited the Sealord Marcelo to dine with him and the invitation extended to the infamous Veiled Lady as well. She took her time dressing, making sure that she was utterly unrecognisable as they were so close to King's Landing main trading port. Leah painted her face as she had on her thirteenth name day and then she donned her dress which was strictly Braavosi and flowed out around her body in a formal black. Illyrio had presented her with some jewels so her neck and ears were adorned with rich rubies which glimmered beneath the fabric of her new black veil enticingly.  _I look like a widow_ , she thought. "I should dress this way always – In my heart I am constantly mourning."

"This is just a bit of mummery. A pretend," Leah reassured and kissed her cheek.

The evening turned out to be rather amusing. The prince had hired a troupe of jugglers to entertain them and the gardens of his palace turned out to be the prettiest Sansa had ever laid eyes on. As well as the elegant statues and exotic bright flowers there was a winding path hidden by tall lush hedges. The prince declared it to be a maze. "The aim to find your way to the middle without falling into a dead end," he chuckled. He looked at Sansa and smiled. "Who's game?"

Most of the guests agreed except for Illyrio and the Sealord, who preferred to sit by the fountain with another glass of wine and plate of sweet meats. Truthfully Sansa wanted to sit with them but she thought it impolite not to join in when the prince was so enthusiastic that she try it. She walked cautiously, aware of the random shrieks coming from other parts of the maze that signalled somebody was chasing them. She was interested in finding the middle but found the idea of it all a little immature...she could see such a creation at Highgarden but doubted that Daenerys Targaryen spent her time playing in mazes like a child. She reached the middle before the others and to her surprise found Prince Pietro waiting in the small clearing.

"Magnificence," she greeted wearily, addressing him in the manner that was proper here. She put her hands together so that she wouldn't fidget and tried to sound coy like the other courtesans of Braavos. "You are the winner of the game."

"And you a close second," he noted. "I thought you would be. Although that veil makes you look like a spectre...mayhaps you simply  _walked_ through the hedges, no?" She smiled politely. In the evening light she certainly looked like a spectre in her dark veil and flimsy dress. "The Veiled Woman, they call you. Why do you wear it?"

"Why do you think, highness?"

"Mayhaps your face is so beautiful that it ensnares any man that looks upon it?" he smiled intimately.

"That is one guess, yes." She stood still but felt wary of how close he was to her. She tried not to worry as it was an unwritten rule not to touch a courtesan unless you paid for her and Giacomo was very strict about it. Only the month before he had had a man's hand cut off for only grazing against the Poetess. Being a prince he would know all this, though she couldn't help but wish Sandor was here to chase him off. She still was not used to her sword shield's absence and it was situations like this that made her realise how much she needed him.

Her heart ached a little at the thought of him but then the prince's smile suddenly faltered and he leant forward so that he could whisper in her ear. She felt his breath against her cheek. "What would I have to do to gaze upon it for myself? I wish to know you better."

She stepped smartly back and shook her head, somewhat flustered. She had been trying to be coy – not flirtatious.

"It would be a great honour for you to be my paramour," he continued. "Would you not like to walk at a prince's side? Wearing beautiful jewels and owning clothes beyond measure."

"While your people starve?" she shot out before she could think and then blanched at her own daring. "Excuse me, please."

Stomach clenched, she rushed back out of the maze and to the Sealord Marcelo's side. The two rich men were heartily drunk and Illyrio had his head on the table.

Sansa hoped that she wouldn't hear any more about the prince's proposal but the very next day Giacomo came to her rooms with a frown. The prince had offered him a huge sum for the exclusive rights of the Veiled Woman but Giacomo turned him down flat. Sansa could tell by the man's pained expression that it had not been an easy thing to do. "I said you were to be married. That you'd already been exclusively bought by a man in Lys. You'd best stick to that story, my lady."

Sansa prepared an entire back story for her courtesan character but it turned out that nobody questioned it after that. Either the prince had not told anyone else of his intentions or they were all too wrapped up in other things to discuss it. Of course, Sansa was flattered by the prince's attention, even if it was unwanted. Not many girls could brag that a foreign prince had wanted her...although not to marry - just to share the night with. Prince Pietro was a handsome man with long dark hair and smouldering brown eyes but his beardless face was young and revealed him to be no more than twenty years old. He had been the son of an infamous judge who if the stories were true had used blackmail and money to secure all the votes for his son. The prince seemed like a harmless man, fond of hawking and festivities, and shouldered away responsibility like the plague that threatened his city.

Nonetheless she could have thought of him kindly had he not decided to turn up at her rooms the following night. When she heard the knock she put back the richly embroidered covers of her bed and went to the door, key in hand. "Who is it?"

"Pietro, the Prince. I must speak with you now."

"I cannot open the door," she lied. She wished that Leah was here but she was asleep in the room next door with the other maids. The Veiled Woman needed no bed mate. "I'll speak with you on the 'morrow."

"I want to apologise for my conduct and I won't whisper it through a door. My manservant is here too. There will be no question of your honour."

She hesitated, "Just a crack then." She turned the key, keeping her foot pressed against the bottom of the door to ensure that it opened only a little. However, as soon as he heard the key turn the prince banged the door open with such force that it hit Sansa's head and sent her reeling back into the room.

"I am not accustomed to being told no," he glowered. "Especially by a whore. You thought I would whisper through a closed door in mine own palace?"

"How dare you force your way here?" Sansa demanded, white faced and furious, as she scrambled to her feet. She was dressed in a simple night shift with her long hair braided back. She was aware that he had know seen her face but there was nothing she could do. "You should leave or I'll tell the Sealord."

"Marcelo was the one who suggested I come up here," he shook his head as though she was a fool.

She felt it. She felt her shock turn into horror as she realised that she had been betrayed by her so called protector, and now this stranger was coming towards her, his handsome face creased into a confident smile. "You're drunk," she accused, smelling the sour stink of wine on his breath.

"Yes, and wine will make a man lusty."

He came towards her, shrugging his silken jacket off his slim shoulders. She shrank back until she felt the tall wooden post of her bed behind her, blocking any further retreat. He tried to grab hold of her arm but she pushed him as hard as she could backwards. "This is unchivalrous, Highness. Please, this is an offence against hospitality. I'm a guest; I have eaten your bread and salt."

"Fuck the guest right," he grumbled but just at that moment she heard an enormous thud and the prince crumpled onto the ground. Behind him stood Giacomo Costa holding a sword, pummel first. He had very obviously just knocked the prince out with it.

Sansa breathed out in relief. "Is he dead...?"

"No, just unconscious. He's snoring," Giacomo muttered after examining him. He looked up at her and his brown eyes were apologetic, "I should've come here sooner. I saw him with the Sealord muttering darkly over his wine cup. I was going to follow him up but he locked the hall door behind him. I had to get a servant to open it for me. Here, take his feet. We have to move his body."

She bent down to do as he asked just as Leah darted in, yawning. "My lady, I thought I heard a bump..." when she saw the two of them struggling with the prince's body her mouth fell open in surprise. "What in the Gods have I missed?"

"An unfriendly caller," Giacomo answered and grunted as he lifted the man's torso. "Help her with the feet."

"Where shall we take him?" Sansa whispered. "He'll be furious tomorrow."

"We'll leave him just outside the door. He can come to on the floor like the dog he is and crawl back to his rooms. If he's still here tomorrow morning the servants will see him and he'll be a laughing stock," he answered after they had half carried- half dragged him out into the hallway. His rich clothes were now covered in dust and there was a line of drool at the corner of his mouth. "Leah, you stay with Lady Stark tonight. Make sure you lock and bolt the door this time."

The two girls agreed and Leah went inside the room to prepare a fire. Sansa hung back to thank her unlikely saviour. She was completely taken aback by his actions as he had always seemed a quiet calculating sort of man like Littlefinger had been. He had been polite certainly but Ginny had been the one to make her feel at home. Now that she knew of the Sealord's wavering loyalty she felt thankful to have a protector close by even if he did somewhat fade into the background. He would have to do anyway, until Sandor returned.  _If he returned_ , she thought,  _No, don't think like that. One day he will. He said as much._  He waved away her thanks with a bejewelled hand, "Certainly," he replied, somewhat gruffly. "Now get to bed."

Once Sansa had locked and bolted the door she crawled back into bed with Leah and they pulled the covers up to their necks. On cue, as though they both had been fighting against the urge, they burst into pearls of laughter at the thought of their humbled prince outside.

* * *

A.N:  _*Is a quote taken directly from Illyrio in aDwD._


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa finds somebody unexpected

After that Sansa received no more invitations for her supposed custom. She guessed rightly that it had something to do with Giacomo and was thankful to him. After her journey to Pentos she did not leave Braavos again and was even more closely guarded when she went outside the Palace of Silk. She was given her own pleasure barge and enjoyed languishing back on the soft pillows while a man shuttled her around in the sunshine. She always took a few of the handmaids with her and when she first visited the Purple Harbor in it she was reminded of how she had once longed to touch a pleasure barge. That had been the day that Sandor jumped into the sea to rescue her from drowning. She had not heard from Sandor yet and while she tried to remain positive the doubts would often creep into her mind.  _Would he ever come back?_ She did not understand the reason for his leaving no matter how much she considered it but surely he would not just leave her here in Braavos. He had promised to come back for her yet a year had passed with no news. She heard about the Dragon Queen often as the Braavosi took dragons extremely seriously, especially so because of their history. She dreamt of what it would be like to fly on a dragon's back and have that much power at her disposal. She would roast the Lannister's, the Frey's and the Bolton's over its flame and avenge her fallen family. She was just beginning to come to peace over the loss of her family when she found Arya.

Or, rather, she  _thought_  she found Arya. She had been in her pleasure barge sailing down one of the canals close to the Isle of the Gods when she saw the familiar face peering at her. She looked older with prominent cheekbones and skinny arms sticking out of the rough dress she wore. Startled, she'd demanded the boat to turn around but by the time she went back Arya had vanished. She would not have known Sansa because of the veil but Sansa recognized those grey eyes.  _Father's eyes_. Even so she had only been half convinced that it was actually her sister. She had been through too much tragedy in her short life to expect some sort of luck and finding Arya alive after all this time would be lucky indeed. The last time she'd seen her sister was back in the Tower of the Hand packing with a scowl on her face. They had bickered like cats and dogs but it would be  _so wonderful_  to see her now. She had assumed that Arya was dead but it was never confirmed. Perhaps she had escaped before the Sack of the Tower and hidden away until she could barter a passage on a ship? It seemed unlikely but given Sansa's miraculous escape it was not impossible. With this in mind she asked Giacomo to send out guards to look around and see what they could find out. It would be unwise to go publically  _looking_  for the missing Stark girl but perhaps they might still hear something.

In the end it was Sansa herself who found her. She'd been attending a small gathering at the Sealord's palace when she was robbed by a gang of street urchins. They moved with such speed that her guards were taken unaware. The children hurled into them, knocking her carriage over and scattering her guards. Their hands were immediately at her throat and pulling at the expensive necklace that hung there. Sansa didn't struggle and let them run off with her jewels but when she looked up she saw the familiar face once again staring at her.

"Arya!"

This time she was ready to pursue her. She quickly got to her feet and chased after the gang, gathering her skirts in her fist so that she would not trip up. Her guards shouted after her but she was already at the corner before they noticed. "Arya!" she shouted.

The girl stopped and looked back over her shoulder curiously. When she reached her she saw the glint of a knife clutched in one hand. Her stance was graceful but poised like one of the many alley cats that frequented the streets of Braavos. She had grown taller.

"It's me," Sansa panted and pulled off her veil so roughly that it tore out hairs. "Don't you recognise me?"

She watched as Arya Stark's eyes widened and she paled dramatically. Sansa felt her heart race. " _Sansa_?"

And then she was in her arms and they were both weeping.

Sansa hugged the skinny girl close and smelt the canals and dirt. "Your hair," Sansa giggled when she finally drew back. She tugged a strand gently with one hand. Arya's hair was not as mousey as it had once been but it was knotted and cut lopsided. She remembered Jon mussing this hair when he was in a good mood but she had always sneered at it.

Arya seemed as perplexed as she by her appearance. "What are you doing here? Why are you dressed like  _that_?"

"Time enough for all that. Come with me."

She took Arya back to the Palace of Silk and hid her up in her rooms so that they wouldn't be disturbed. Eventually she would have to tell Giacomo but until that time they had a lot to discuss and Sansa wanted this moment alone with her sister. Arya told her all about her escape and her travels with Yoren. "He was going to take me back to Winterfell but then we got attacked by some Lannister men…or at least I think they were Lannister. After that I tried to get to Riverrun but when I heard about Robb and mother…" she bit her lip and Sansa guessed that she hadn't spoken to anyone about it before. "I got on the first ship away."

"And since then?" Arya was sitting in a bronze tub by the fire while Sansa gently scrubbed her hair clean. The water was scalding hot but Arya didn't seem to notice. She had only sighed at its touch and leant back, as though soothed by its heat. Sansa saw now the new curves of Arya's body but for some reason it saddened her; her little sister was now a maiden flowered too, she had missed so much. Arya also had a dark Braavosi mark inked onto her slim back which she called a tattoo.

"I've been at the House of the Undying. They've been teaching me things."

So she had been close all this time. Sansa had walked past that temple a dozen times but never entered. "What sort of  _things_?"

"How to go unnoticed. How to hide," Arya replied with a shrug although there was something in her eyes that told Sansa she was holding something back. She looked like she used to do whenever she stole something sweet from the kitchens or accidently smashed a window.

"And…?"

"I've killed people, Sansa," Arya admitted after a moment's pause. "The first was the blacksmith's boy back in King's Landing…but I can't remember who else now. Their faces mean nothing to me anymore…I didn't want to tell you."

Sansa reached out and tenderly put a hand on her shoulder. She knew Arya expected her to scold and fuss but she was not their lady mother and had learnt as well what it took to survive in the real world. She would not look down on anything Arya had done and would not question her anymore. She was allowed her secrets, after all. "We've all had to do things we're not proud of admitting."

Arya looked around, surprised but grateful. "What of you? The Palace of Silk…even the fishmongers know about this place. It's even fancier than King's Landing."

"The Hound rescued me. He brought me here."

"The Hound?" she yelped, and some of the water splashed over onto the floor as she sat up. "That Lannister murderer!"

"He's not like that anymore!" Sansa defended quickly. "He's taken care of me. After everything that happened in King's Landing…I can't even describe how horrible it was there."

"You're still trying to live a fairytale, aren't you?"

Sansa pulled back, stung, "I know fairytales aren't real, Arya. I've know that ever since they killed our family - I owe him my  _life_. Without him I would be dead by now and you alone."

Arya fell silent at that but gently reached up to squeeze her hand in apology. "I will say nothing to him if it offends you, but don't expect me to trust him."

"You won't have to say anything at all; he left me over a year ago. I know not where he went." Sansa resumed cleaning her sister's hair while Arya looked around the elaborately decorated room. When she was finished Arya dried herself on a warmed up sheet and wriggled into one of Sansa's elegant nightgowns. Sansa offered her a glass of mulled red wine with cloves which she took, admitting that she had not drank anything so rich in years.

"You look like her, you know. When I first saw you I thought you  _were_ her."

Sansa looked up from her cup and caught the expression of longing on Arya's face and felt her heart break once more. "I can't remember the last thing I said to her, you know. I probably whined about how old and unfashionable my dresses were."

"I miss everything. Winterfell, Robb, Bran, Jon Snow. Mother and father. The Godswood, the hot springs, and the damp Sept. Do you remember that giant from the stables? Hodor."

"Yes," Sansa smiled. "We threw snowballs at him once and Jory scolded us. Then we threw them at _him_  with Bran."

That night they wept together and fell asleep in each other's arms like they used to do when they were young girls back in Winterfell.

Arya had grown up. She no longer spoke as much as she used to and her time away had taught her patience. She listened more now and seemed to take notice of everything – and everyone - around her with just a quick glance. It was obvious that she was uncomfortable in Sansa's luxurious rooms after all the time spent on flea ridden bunks but she refused to move into rooms of her own and Sansa was relieved; as the only surviving member of her family – save Jon – she had no intention of letting her out of her sight again. In turn Arya insisted that she had changed as well and was no longer the "grand lady" that she had once been which made Sansa glad. The Costa's were amazed by Arya's appearance and made every effort to comfort her in the ways they had with Sansa. The Sealord had been overjoyed by the news but when introduced cast forlorn expressions at Arya's disheveled appearance.

"I suppose they thought I'd look like you," Arya correctly guessed as they left. "All soft and pretty."

Sansa had laughed at that. "Instead of a true Stark."

Arya did look the part with her serious face and long dark hair. Her eyes were exactly as her father's had been and her jaw just as stubborn. She had grown into a beautiful woman, a real winter maid, without even realizing it but Sansa knew best than to remark upon it. When irritated she was still as fierce as her direwolf had once been.

"Do you miss Lady?" Arya asked.

"All the time. Do you?" She thought of her time in King's Landing and how it might've been different with Lady beside her but couldn't. She would never have been allowed to keep Lady. Cersei would've ordered her execution at some point just to hurt her.

"I'd like to see her again, but I think she's better off in the wild. I like the thought of her hunting in the Riverlands causing mischief."

They lived a happy existence for two weeks before being interrupted; a feat that seemed almost impossible these days. During the days Arya showed her the rough dingy side of Braavos and Sansa in turn showed her the elegant side in her pleasure barge. Arya seemed perplexed by the veil until Sansa explained. "Perhaps we should have one made for you."

"I think not."

At night they would dine in Sansa's room, sometimes with Leah and her handmaidens, but mostly alone. They spoke about their time in Braavos but little about anything else…the pain was still very strong in Arya who had not had anyone to confide in so Sansa was quick to distract her.

The interruption came by the ringing of loud bells. They all scrambled onto the balconies to see what was amiss and in the distance they spotted a dark shape in the sky.

"A dragon," Ginny had whispered, clutching onto Sansa's arm. "It's the Dragon Queen come to cook us. The Titan help us."

She was only half correct. Deanerys Targyeryn rode into Braavos on dragon back but had no intention of slaying anyone unless they fought her. The Sealord surrendered the city after a matter of hours. Braavos had a sufficient enough army to withhold attack from land or sea but dragon's tipped the ordinary rules.

Giacomo was surprisingly calm about the invasion, as though already tipped off by one of his numerous acquaintances. He instructed everybody to stay in their rooms and go about their business as normal and assured them that they would be fine. Sansa and Arya stood on her balcony watching as the strange foreign army swept into the seaside town. The men were shaved with pointed helms and slick dark skin…They watched as some Braavosi men fought in the streets but they were outnumbered and quickly silenced by Unsullied. They observed the Sack of Braavos together with their hands clasped and their cheeks dry.

When the sky turned pink Sansa decided to try and rest but just as her eyelids closed her door was slammed open. The man standing there was large and broad with a rough spun cloak pulled up over his head. When he lowered it she thought her heart might burst.

_He has come back to me._

She sat up on the bed, the bedcovers pooling at her waist. When she reached out for him he came and knelt beside her. She had to feel the skin of his poor burnt cheek before she really believed he was real.

"You're late," she murmured.

"Little bird, I have brought you an army."

She put her smooth cheek to his and breathed in the familiar scent of him. He smelt like dust, blood and sweat. For a moment neither of them spoke and stayed in the embrace. She felt him put a timid hand on her waist and leaned into him, willing time to stand still for just a moment longer.

"Hound."

They broke apart and saw Arya watching them warily.

"So it's true. You're one of us now."

"My allegiance is to Sansa, not you," Sandor replied curtly. "Although it might be if you try asking nicely."

Sansa shook her head at their banter and slid out from the covers. Several of her handmaidens were peeking in from the hallway, obviously intrigued by the slamming doors, and she waved them in. "My finest dress and jewels," she ordered smoothly. "I fear we have a dragon to meet."

Sandor smirked and poured himself a drink. She was surprised that he chose the sweet cider over the Dornish red.  _He's changed_ , she thought.  _He looks more content now._

"The golden queen bid me find you. For now she's taken up residence in the Sealord's Palace."

"For now?" Sansa repeated.

"Aye. She won't be stopping for long. She intends to travel west soon…to Dragonstone and the Seven Kingdoms. A certain Iron Throne beckons."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa meets the last Targaryen.

 

They rode through the city and Sansa was surprised over the lack of destruction she saw. On their flight from King's Landing she had seen the wreckage of war littering the roads but here she saw men peddling canal boats, errand boys dashing between the merchant houses, and even flower sellers calling out for custom. She spotted Elario charming a pretty young girl with a purple flower and he winked when he caught her gaze. It seemed that business in Braavos had already continued. She did see two of the Unsullied chain together a couple of battered men but their shoulders were hunched and their heads hung; the spirit had long ago left them. Overall it seemed as though the city had expected an attack and they were doing their best to ignore the intruders. Braavos was one of the richest cities in the world and Sansa assumed that they did not want the Dragon Queen to disrupt that. "Are the Unsullied as ferocious as they say?" she called to Sandor, as their party made their way to the Sealord's palace. She had not ridden a horse in months and already her thighs were beginning to cramp as she sat uneasily in the saddle. Arya must've noticed but said nothing and Sansa appreciated it. It made her feel weak and silly.

"They can be. An unthinking army, the poor bastards do whatever Daenerys commands without hesitation. They own nothing. Some of them don't even have names."

She knew little about the Unsullied except that they were great fighters and they were eunuchs. She felt uneasy whenever she saw one of their golden helms and glistening bodies; Leah had told her a particularly nasty story about them slaying animals as part of their training.

The Sealord Marcelo, when they met him, smiled and greeted them as politely as ever but when Sansa dipped a curtsey in return she noticed the bead of sweat on his dark brow. She smiled wryly at that, remembering as always the Sealord's testy loyalty. She had yet to tell Sandor about the Prince's behaviour and wondered how much the Sealord would sweat then. They were led by an Unsullied into the lord's own audience chamber and there upon the marble throne sat Daenerys Targaryen, the Unburnt, and the Mother of Dragons.

 _She's so young_ , was Sansa's first impression.

She didn't look that much older than Sansa and yet she had accomplished so much. Daenerys was slim with a childlike face and magnificent wide violet eyes. She had the infamous long white hair of her house and it was simply braided back away from her face. She was very beautiful but in a wild untamed sort of way...much like Arya was. She was dressed as a Dothraki in a pair of rugged breeches and an exotic brown vest.  _There is nothing grand about her, and yet she is more regal than even Cersei Lannister_. Cersei was the only queen Sansa had ever seen but her charms came from her looks and expensive gowns. Daenerys, evidently, needed none of them to rule. Her maids and servants looked up to her with total devotion and the Dothraki at her side looked ready to kill for her.

Sansa curtseyed beneath the queen's gaze and tried to look as composed as possible _. I have the blood of the First Men in my veins. I am a child of winter_ , she reminded herself _, and a maiden flowered. I must not shiver like a child. I must keep my head up and my back strait. She will not own me._

"So you are the daughters of Winterfell," Daenerys began and gestured for them to rise. She was sitting on the edge of the throne, as though waiting to leave. Sansa sensed an impatient streak in the young queen that admitted to her age.

"Yes, your grace."

"The surviving children of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully?"

"The very same," she confirmed, ignoring the stab in her gut when their names were called.

"The same Stark traitor that rode beside the Usurper?"

"Our father was no traitor," Arya interrupted, frowning. She didn't shout but it was obvious that she wanted to. "King Robert was his  _friend_."

Daenerys looked unmoved. "And they murdered my father."

"The Mad King. Jaime Lannister did that."

"And in time he will know my revenge," the queen promised. A slight frown had appeared between her eyebrows. "They killed my brother, the rightful heir."

Sansa decided to interrupt before Arya could reply. It would suit them all best if they didn't go down this road. "If it please your grace," she said briskly. "We could speak for an age about the dead and never agree. We three were all born after the rebellion. None of us can account for their actions." Sandor let out a bark of laughter from beside her and she felt herself blush.

There was a small silence and then finally a voice spoke up. It was not a voice she expected to hear, however.

"Well said, my Lady."

"The Imp!" Arya cried.

" _Arya_!"

If Tyrion Lannister was irritated by Arya's outcry he didn't show it. He smiled at the two sisters and Sansa was struck by the new scars that ran across his face. He had always been an ugly little man but now he was almost grotesque. He'd grown a little beard in a feeble attempt to hide some of them but it did little to help when his nose was partially gone. Sansa was so surprised by his sudden appearance that for a second she forgot her courtesies and stared. Only his voice roused her, "It's a pleasure to see you both again."

She would not have said it was a pleasure but nevertheless agreed. "You are kind to say so, my lord. What brings you to this corner of the world?"

A wry smile played at his lips but it looked more like a grimace. "The same reason as you it would seem."

Daenerys intervened, "Lord Lannister is under my protection and has sworn me the support of the Westerlands. His advice on the politics of Westeros has been most helpful." Sansa nodded, unsure if Tyrion could deliver on his promises. From what she could remember Cersei had never shown the slightest affection for her youngest brother and if rumour was true neither had their father. Did he truly have the gull to bring down the rest of his family?

"And then Ser Clegane came and told me of your predicament. I can promise you revenge for your mother. For your brothers. But first you must bend the knee and promise me your help."

Sansa held out her hands. "And what help is that? As you can see I have little."

"You are the key to the north. They will follow the remaining Starks."

Sansa exchanged a look with her sister and Arya's eyes were burning. She knew Arya wished for vengeance and even she longed for the deaths of the Frey's and the Bolton's, but she had seen what came from revenge; had seen the bitterness and emptiness in the eyes of Robert Baratheon. All she wanted now was  _home_. "We aren't interested in revenge, your grace."

Deanery's tilted her head slightly, as though reading her mind. "Then I promise you stewardship of the north, Lady Sansa. I will give you Winterfell."

 _Winterfell._ She felt Arya's grip on her shoulder and nodded her consent at once _. We can go home._

Sansa remained uneasy in the golden queen's presence and in turn Daenerys never sought her out alone. The only times they spoke were in the company of others. She couldn't pin point the exact reason but there was just something about the young queen that made her feel uncomfortable; it might've been her unchanging prejudice against her father or her relentless tirade against those who doubted her. Daenerys seemed completely single minded in her actions and her moods tended to turn without cause. She was truly a Targaryen; unpredictable, quick to anger, and sometimes even plain rude. The courtesies that had once saved Sansa were wasted on the Dragon Queen and for that Sansa found it hard to like her. Sansa was uprooted from the Palace of Silk and moved into the Sealord's Palace in order to be close in case she was needed. She felt a flicker of sadness at leaving the palace. She had enjoyed the company and the lessons more than she could've ever guessed. It had housed her well and treated her like a friend. The rooms felt familiar to her and she would miss sitting on the balcony and looking out over the city. She assured the Costa's that she would never forget their kindness and when Winterfell was restored she would repay them. However, she did ask them if they might release Leah into her service; she had grown fond of the maid and Leah was more than excited to leave.

It didn't take her long to get settled and she tried to accustom herself to Daenerys' strange court. She found that she enjoyed the company of the Imp, even if he did tend to be sharp with his words, but was shy of the huge Dothraki bloodriders. In contrast Arya spent most of her time talking to Rakharo and Aggo and ignored the Lannister. The Sealord remained at the queen's side but was withdrawn and fixed everybody with an insolent stare. The first time they were alone he implored her to speak to Daenerys and beg her to move on but Sansa gave him an icy look.

"You try to beg a favour from me? You would have allowed a drunken lout to abuse me while I was under your protection. I do not forget, my lord."

"My lady, I do not-"

"Swallow your excuses. I shan't be taken advantage of again."

Sansa enjoyed walking in the Sealord's gardens, especially as it had its very own heart tree. It wasn't as large as the one at home and had no face carved into its bark but she was not unused to making do with what she got. She would visit most evenings and kneel before it, praying for her family and for the strength to face the shell of Winterfell again. She'd been told of its ruined state but would not let that deter her. She even prayed for Bran and Rickon. Sometimes, when she was alone, she imagined Bran's voice coming from the heart tree and he would reassure her that he and Rickon were alive and in hiding. She knew it was just a childish fantasy fuelled by hope but it plagued her dreams and so couldn't just forget about it. She asked Tyrion the Imp if there was any truth to such things as he was the most well learned, but he'd only fixed her with a sarcastic smile. "If dreams were real I would be a very satisfied little man."

She had paused at that and looked down at him curiously. "What do you dream about, my lord?"

"Whores."

She did not have a chance to talk to Sandor properly until a week later, and he found her walking alone in the gardens. She gave him a warm smile and asked if he might join her. It was a chilly evening and the wind tugged at her soft dress. She still preferred to dress in the Braavosi style and tonight wore a dress of green silk with a white cotton shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She left her hair down so that it might blow back around her face, having long ago discarded the elaborate styles of King's Landing. Sandor was dressed in a simple tunic and breeches with a thick cloak of grey cotton thrown over the top.

"I thought you had forgotten me."

He smiled wryly, "You've been kept busy." She had. It seemed that every day the queen wanted to discuss something and she relied heavily on Tyrion and Sansa for their knowledge of Westeros. She had given up asking for Arya's input after the youngest Stark had fallen asleep during a council. The memory brought an amused smile to Sansa's lips even now.

"Tell me," she implored, and they began to walk along the winding path. Exotic plants and flowers littered the sides but she only had eyes for Sandor.

"It's a dull story, little bird. I spent a couple of weeks on the coast, drinking myself into oblivion, when I ran into Jorah Mormont and the Imp. Or at least, they ran into me. You won't know Mormont but your father did - he's the reason he's exiled out here in the first place. Slave selling, I think. Anyway, they tried to fight me, thinking that Daenerys would like my head on a spike for my brother's crimes but it was an easy win; a dwarf and a drunken fool. I was going to leave them in the brothel but I decided that I would take  _them_  to her. Through the haze I thought of you and how you needed help. She's a sure bet," he added sincerely. "She may be fickle but she's not an idiot. She could have fed me to her bloody dragons but she saw the advantage of having the daughter of Winterfell on her side. Plus the Imp spoke up on your part."

Sansa was silent for a moment while she took it all in. "Why did you leave?"

He cringed back at that. "Not now, little bird."

"Then why did you come back?"

"I swore I would," he shrugged and she smiled at him. "Now tell me of your time, and don't give me that gentile crap. Be honest…" She told him about the years that passed and the new things she learnt. She told him about Leah, about learning of Joffrey's death, of Pentos, and finally the prince. "That bastard," he swore once she finished.

"I was fine," she assured him. "I was looked after."

He fell silent at that and they sat on one of the many carved benches overlooking a fountain. Sansa hunched up beneath her shawl but the wind still chilled her. Sandor noticed this and gruffly passed her his patched cloak. She remembered that day, so long ago, in King's Landing when he'd thrown her his cloak for the first time. She'd been half naked in front of the entire court and his cloak was the only thing that comforted her. It did the same now. Sandor leant back and chuckled underneath his breath. "You make people want to look after you."

Sansa raised an eyebrow, stung. "You make me sound so weak."

"It was a compliment. It's your greatest gift. Cersei had her cunt, Daenerys has her family name, but you…you inspire a different kind of loyalty."

She laughed and gently laid a hand on his. It looked tiny in comparison. "I missed you."

"And I you. You've grown into a different person while I was gone." Her mother's name hung in the air between them but Sandor was wise to ignore it.

"So have you." It was true. He was still rash and headstrong but there was an air of calmness around him now, as though he had let off some steam. He stayed away from alcohol as well which greatly soothed his temper.

"Do you prefer it?"

"You'll always be the same Sandor to me," she admitted. "With your snarls and honesty. I wouldn't want you to be any other way."

"I scared you once," he reminded her.

Her expression turned serious and she took back her hand. She had long ago forgotten to be afraid of the man beside her. She had seen him cry, wiped the blood from his knuckles, and shared his bread and salt. She felt safer with him than she had ever done before. True, he had shouted at her and left her alone but on the other hand he had saved her life. She would never be able to repay his kindness. The scars on his cheek were now part of him and she couldn't imagine him any other way. "And Joffrey made me love him. Appearances, my dear Sandor, can be utterly deceiving," she replied.

Wherever she went Sandor was often at her side and they were easy in each other's company in a way they had never been before. Arya was still mistrustful of him and Tyrion the Imp avoided him but Daenerys seemed to admire his spark.

One morning the gates opened to admit two riders and Daenerys led them all out to greet them. The scowling one was presumably Jorah Mormont from Bear Island. He was muscled like an ox with shaggy brown hair and a slave mark on one cheek. He gave Sansa and Arya a courteous nod but only seemed to have eyes for the queen. Sansa was unsure what to make of him. Then there was Barristan Selmy, or rather Barristan the Bold as Sansa was taught. She had listened to tales of his bravery as a child and remembered that Bran had dashed around the yard the next day brandishing a wooden sword and calling himself Brandon the Bold. When she saw the white knight she felt herself grin and she beckoned to him. "Ser Barristan," she greeted, and he took her hands.

"Lady Sansa!" he sounded genuinely happy to see her again. "You have grown, sweet child. My condolences for your losses," he added soberly.

"Thank you, ser. I hope you are well?"

"Much better now. I recall the last time we met…it was on the Kingsroad, was it not? With Renly and Ser Ilyn."

"It was indeed," she smiled, remembering how excited she had felt that day and how scared she was of Ser Ilyn Payne. She'd been filled with dreams of prince's, pretty dresses, and songs. She gestured to Arya beside her. "My sister, Arya."

"Yes, I remember you as well," he chuckled. "Your wolf pup mangled Joff's arm."

Arya smirked and gave him a little bob of a curtsey. She lacked Sansa's grace but there was something equally as charming about her awkwardness that made people smile. To an acquaintance the two sisters were as different as night and day; Sansa was prim, graceful, and everything a true lady should be while Arya was short tempered and blunt. Yet they both wielded the same Stark fire. Arya could lead a charge, but Sansa could last a siege.

Daenerys looked taken back by the familiarity but held her tongue as she led them inside the palace. Later on she requested Sansa to take a seat beside her at dinner and questioned her on the Kingsroad meeting. She knew nothing of Renly or Ser Ilyn and Sansa tried her best to explain their characters justly. She spoke honestly and without bias but appreciated the grimace Daenerys made after hearing about Ser Ilyn. On her right hand side sat Sandor who kept quiet but she felt comforted to feel his shoulder against hers _. He had been there too_ , she reminded herself,  _on the Kingsroad. Joff sent him away for scaring me_. She could've laughed at the way things had turned out.

Later on Daenerys sent a page to her rooms, asking if she would join her for a nightcap. Sansa was surprised by the intimate invitation but accepted, sparing Arya only the quickest of looks. The queen was already changed for bed when she arrived but wore a robe of ivory lace to cover her modesty and had her exquisite hair pulled down. She poured Sansa a glass of wine and she took it thankfully. It was hot and spicy, filling her belly with warmth.

"It's been mulled."

"It's delicious, thank you," Sansa replied and took a proffered seat by the fire.

Daenerys sat in the opposite chair and leant forward as she spoke, "I have heard many stories about you, Lady Sansa. Your sworn shield never seems to stop talking about you and my Lord Lannister knows everyone's business," she smiled. "But I have a question. It is said that the Usurper's Queen had you beaten before the court…even stripped. Is this true?"

Sansa's grip on her glass tightened and she tried to not look hurt.  _She is very bold_. "Joffrey did that."

"Your family betrothed you to him?"

"I begged them for it. Joffrey was once all I ever dreamed for."

The queen watched her over her glass. "You wished to be queen?"

"I wanted to be a princess," she corrected honestly. "I was young, in love with the idea of feasts and court."

"But you were unhappy there."

"It is dangerous to be surrounded by lions." What more could she say?

"Why did you not run away? Your sister did."

The question was so simple and yet Sansa had no answer for it. She could've found a way to escape had she been brave or crafty enough but instead she'd stayed to face the lions. She had been struck dumb with fear and acted like a child.  _I was a child_ , she tried to justify,  _but then so was Arya_. The one thing Sansa hated above all was being called stupid. All her life she had been written off as an empty headed little girl and she was sick of it. Her father and mother had expected no more from her than to marry well, as had the rest of her family and maester Luwin. On her eleventh name day she overheard Arya and Jon privately discussing her, calling her "just a silly  _girl_ " and to take no notice of anything she said. Only after did they notice her standing there and Jon had blushed to the very roots of his hair, stammering apologies. Cersei and Joffrey had called her dumb plenty of times in King's Landing and she even remembered a drunken Sandor shouting it at her in the canal house. No other word moved her as much. Only little Rickon had ever looked at her as anything more…and that was only as a warm lap to sit on.

"I put my trust in the wrong people," she replied curtly.

"A foolish mistake, but understandable," Daenerys murmured pityingly.

"Was that all, your grace? I must retire."

"Your sworn shield holds you in such high regard," she noted and finally sat back. "Tell me, how long has he been in love with you?"

Sansa rose to her feet and even though her hands were shaking managed to put the goblet down gently. She tried to steady her voice, affronted, "Is this courtesy in Meereen? Prying into the lives of others is considered rude in Westeros. You may want to polish your manners if you ever wish to sit on the throne."

"How dare you!" Daenerys frowned, standing as well. "The Iron Throne is my birthright. You have no right to speak to me so."

"You have no right to speak to  _me_  so."

"You do not wake the dragon," Daenerys warned. "You are here at my charity."

"And you do not bait the wolf," Sansa retorted. She breathed in heavily and held her head high. "I will leave you."

She made it to the door before Daenerys spoke, and when she did Sansa was surprised to hear a hint of amusement in her tone. "Goodnight, Lady Stark. It is good to see some iron in you at last."

The queen did not mention their discussion again and warmed towards Sansa. She requested her presence at all council meetings and even accompanied her when she rode out into Braavos. Sansa was hesitant but then she found, to her utmost surprise, that she was starting to like the queen too. It turned out that they had a lot in common and their tastes were very similar. Daenerys truly cared about her subjects and there was an honesty about her that was refreshing. She admitted to Sansa that she was at a loss with Westerosi customs and implored her to educate her. In order to conquer the Seven Kingdoms she needed the support of the people and while Tyrion was patiently explaining to her the history of the houses she needed someone to fine tune her manners. Sansa agreed hesitantly.

She told Sandor about her new task while they sat together at dinner and he raised an eyebrow. "Dragon, lion, and now a wolf. You'll devourer them all up."

Sansa laughed but for once didn't take the bait. They were supping on roasted lamb with bean and garlic sauce and drinking elderberry wine. She had long ago gotten used to such rich food. "And the Clegane hound," she added.

"They'll be no conquering for me, little bird. No doubt I'll be shipped off to the Riverlands to round up any outlaws."

 _And his brother_ , she thought despairingly. She looked up at him, alarmed. "You aren't leaving me again, Sandor. You'll be coming to Winterfell."

She tried to sound matter of fact about it but to her surprise he snapped back. "And what use will I be there? I don't fit in with your elegant world."

"You fit in with  _me_ ," she replied quietly. "Wherever I go, you must come with me. You swore yourself to me and I won't have you running off again. Besides, I swore we would dance again when I reclaimed Winterfell."

Sandor's face softened under her gaze and he sighed although the un-burnt side of his mouth seemed to be smiling. Sansa found herself doing the same. "Aye, alright. We'll dance to your little heart's content. Now stop peeping at me and eat your food."

Their return to Westeros was long winded and hard. They were scheduled to leave within the fortnight but complications kept arising. Daenerys' temper often blew and Sansa preoccupied her time between Arya, Tyrion and Sandor in order to keep calm. She was nervous about returning home. She had been so wary to leave all those years ago, thinking that she was running away and abandoning her family, but she had learnt a lot. She was returning now as a daughter of Tully and Stark. She was water  _and_  ice. She had found Arya and she would search long and hard for Rickon and Bran too. Rebuilding Winterfell would be horrifically hard but it would be worth it.  _And then I'll be home._

She wondered what awaited her.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa goes home

Leaving Braavos was harder than she could have ever predicted. It had become an unlikely haven away from the plots and intrigue of the Seven Kingdoms and she'd made a surprisingly peaceful life for herself among the silks and courtesans. She knew many of the merchants by name and would miss the easy afternoons shuttling along the canals in her pleasure barge, visiting the merchants for lemon water and figs. When she'd arrived here all those years ago she had been a frightened child, too scared to even venture outside alone in case someone gave her up to the Lannisters. Images of Joffrey and his mother had poisoned her dreams and she'd awoken sobbing and stifled in a sweaty tumble of sheets. But those scars had healed. She no longer thought about the Lannisters, or if she did it was only to picture Joffrey clawing at his neck as he choked to death, and would never again have to hide behind a fake name like Leah or the Veiled Woman. She used to twitch at the smallest of noises and constantly check over her shoulder in case she was being followed, but now she kept her neck straight and her gaze cast forward. She would be returning to the Seven Kingdoms as a woman grown with all the confidence three dragons could give her.

Daenerys often said that if she looked back she was lost. Sansa tried to keep this in mind when she climbed aboard the ship.

She watched the city disappear into the horizon and only then did she go below deck to consult the queen on their next course. They had set sail with a total of fifteen ships but the mix of Unsullied and foreign fighters needed twelve alone...which left the rest of them cramped and uncomfortable, especially when half of the number suffered from sea sickness. Sansa was thankfully spared this time and so spent most of her days on deck watching the sailors work and listening to Tyrion Lannister's talk of dragons. Daenerys was keen to learn everything she could about her "children" and it turned out that Tyrion had read extensively on the subject – and every other subject to hear him chatter on. Sansa was initially uncertain around the little man, who Arya still insisted on calling "Imp", but after a few days of questing him she became fascinated with his stories. He told her tales of the giants and children of the forest and she in turn sang for him. He was in the act of teaching her how to play cyvasse when Sandor approached, scowling. He had yet to warm to the charms of the Golden Queen and her Lannister Imp.

"You are too cautious, my Lady Sansa," Tyrion chuckled when she lost for the third time. "Caution is commendable, but sometimes an aggressive move," he paused to knock her final piece, the King, away, "is wiser."

"Child's play," Sandor commented. He did not take to life at sea and refused to put his heavy armour aside in favour of lighter garb like the rest of the men. Already his poor nose was burnt from the sun, making his face look even rougher, and he looked uncomfortably hot. Sansa rose, thinking that she would get him some water, but he gently took hold of her arm instead, bidding her follow him. He led her to the stern of the boat where it was quieter and she saw that a large shield had been propped up against the mast. She opened her mouth to question him but then caught sight of the weapons he produced; a bow and a quiver of arrows. Sansa stared at it curiously and Sandor let her take the bow to examine it. She had never seen a bow so close. Like all noble lords her brothers had only been interested in swordplay and so weapons like this were usually left to lesser ranking men. She plucked at the string absentmindedly. "I've never seen you shoot an arrow before."

"Men my size favour the longsword but a bow should never be overlooked. It's a long range weapon...perfect for women as it keeps them back at a safe distance."

"Don't let Arya hear you say that. She'll jab you with that little sword of hers."

Sandor chuckled but held up one of the arrows so that she could see the sharp pointed end. "If aimed right an arrow can shoot straight through a neck or even gut a stomach. It's a deadly weapon, no lesser than a sword."

"Dearest Sandor, are you trying to lure me into something?"

"I heard about the waterfront."

Sansa tutted and let go of the bow, instantly annoyed at whoever had told. In her joy at finding Arya she had almost forgotten about being robbed. "It was nothing."

"You were robbed by urchins."

" _Arya_ was one of them. I was perfectly safe."

"That time. We're going back to Winterfell, Sansa, and the Gods only know what we'll find there. Even Deanery's agrees - you need to learn how to protect yourself. Stop being bloody stubborn and _think_."

"I have you."

"Aye, but it would put my mind at ease if you would at least learn..." He looked so serious that Sansa laughed but she took hold of the bow, relenting. It felt smooth beneath her fingertips and had little intricate carvings wound down the handle in gold. It was unmistakably beautiful. Again she plucked the string and watched Sandor demonstrate how to hold it. "Lower your elbow," he instructed when it came for her to try and she did as he bid. "Relax your grasp on the bow..."

She felt like a fool but he told her she was doing fine. Once her stance was deemed correct he offered her an arrow and she promptly managed to fire it into the sea. She swore but instead of getting angry he laughed; her occasional bursts of profanity always seemed to amuse him. Even one of the sailors supposedly working stopped to chortle. "Try not to lose  _all_  of our arrows, little bird. Try and hit the shield."

She tried again but this time dropped the arrow before she could even shoot. Flushing, she looked over her shoulder but when he stepped up behind her she felt something twist in her stomach and found it even harder to concentrate. To her surprise it was not altogether unpleasant. She had always been tall for her age but she still only reached his shoulders. She had to stand on her toes to see his face. As he lined up a new arrow for her she caught his scent and again felt an unfamiliar twist inside.  _He used to smell like sour wine and blood..._ She still sometimes dreamt of the night of Blackwater, how could she not?  _He had reeked of it then_.  _When he stole that song._ Confused, she missed what he said and stared up at him stupidly.

"Little bird?"

"Yes?" she roused herself from her thoughts and tried to focus on what he was saying. She was standing in his arms and his rough hands were guiding her grip across the bow. When he spoke she felt his breath on the top of her head. If anyone should see them like this it would look very incriminating but she felt assured that the only people watching were the sailors – who no doubt would find such tidings terribly dull.

"Like this."

He gently pulled her arm back with his and when he let go of her hand the arrow shot forward towards the shield. Sansa heard the  _crack_  but didn't even check to see if it made its target as she was busy watching his satisfied expression. He gave her a look that was proud and she felt herself grin. A flush was working its way up her neck to the very roots of her hair but he didn't seem to notice. "Again," he bid.

This time he settled on the steps to watch but it took some time before she was able to hit the shield again.  _Just concentrate_ , she thought. She tried again, and  _again_ , until she was shooting straight. She wondered vaguely how many arrows she had shot into the sea to gift the Drowned God. She tried again the next day and then the next until she at last got the hang of it. Arya, needless to say, begrudgingly admitted that Sandor's idea was a good one and even went so far as to show Sansa one or two steps with her skinny sword, claiming that if she was to be attacked she should at least be able to  _hold_  a sword. Daenerys and her small court chose that moment to come and watch and they laughed to see the two sisters in a giggling heap on the floor. Swordplay was definitely not for Sansa.

"I think the elegant bow suits you fairer," Daenerys claimed, helping her up herself. "While the sword belongs to your sister. She is quite savage with it." Anyone else might've taken it as a slight but Arya looked pleased and for the first time gave the queen something that resembled a smile.

Initially Arya had been reluctant to leave Braavos. Whatever life she had made there seemed to interest her more than the Seven Kingdoms but eventually, after watching Sansa pack and plan their return to Winterfell, she changed her mind. _"A Stark must always be in Winterfell", she had said, "So two will be even better."_ Arya longed for home as much as Sansa did, and, more importantly, did not want to miss out on the chance of paying back the Bolton's for their crimes. She had never been one to sit out on a fight. Because there  _would_  be a fight. Even with the Unsullied the risk of losing was still high. They had no idea how many men the Bolton's had nor what state Winterfell was in. Their only hope was that the houses loyal to the Stark name would rise up and bind their men to them.

Winter was coming and if they didn't restore Winterfell before it arrived there would be no chance for any of them...Bolton or Stark alike.

The journey to White Harbour took longer than expected due to unfavourable winds but when the coast finally came into view Sansa felt a flutter of nerves well up in her stomach. She reached out blindly and felt for Sandor's battle scared hand. They were back. She remembered coming here all those years ago and waiting with the horses while Sandor arranged passage. They'd fled under different names.  _I was Leah then_ , she recalled,  _and Sandor was still the Hound._  She felt him squeeze her hand and wondered if he was thinking the same thing. The first thing she thought when White Harbour came into view was just how green it was. Braavos had been all marble, sand, and water. The rolling green countryside and mud reminded her of her childhood.

"We're back..." she whispered as they floated closer.

"Say the word and I'll charter another ship," he smirked. "This time we'll head for Volantis. No one'll find us there."

The crowds managed to soothe her worry. Word of Daenerys had already reached the kingdoms and it appeared she had the support of the smallfolk. It seemed that the entire town had turned out to see the last Targaryen and when Daenerys disembarked they raised a cheer. "Daenerys Targeryen!" they shouted. "Queen Daenerys! The Mother of Dragons!" Some of them peered around anxiously to catch a glimpse of her dragons and they were not disappointed. Daenerys whistled and a deadly screech came from the sky, followed by the flapping of wings. Whichever dragon it was didn't come any closer but it served to terrify the crowd, who shrunk back. Her dragons had been well behaved on the voyage and kept themselves away in the skies. Daenerys had a way of communicating with them that was almost magical.

It was then that they received a surprise.

A horn sounded and the crowds parted hesitantly as four men came forward dressed in furs and armour. The tallest was clean shaven, bald, and looked like a man who was used to scowling. Sansa thought she spotted the Baratheon sigil on his chest but he looked nothing like the fat Robert or handsome young Renly. The second man was stooped and caked in a layer of dirt and grime. He had brittle white hair and moved stiffly, as though injured in the leg. There was something about him, however, that jogged Sansa's memory. Like a dream almost. The third man was old with a sea weathered face but there was still a trace of humour left in his eyes.

The forth man...

"Jon!" Arya rushed forward. She scrambled down onto the pier, any fragments of etiquette forgotten, and ran into their stunned half-brother's arms. His giant white direwolf sat beside him on the ground, studying them silently.  _Ghost._

Sansa followed at a slow pace, her legs feeling more and more like jelly with every step. She had dreamt of this moment, thinking that it would be  _so sweet_  to see him again, but would not be surprised if he decided to shun her. She had been cruel to Jon as a child, unceremoniously imitating her mother, and so they'd never really been as brother and sister.  _Robb, Bran, and Rickon were my brothers_ , she thought.  _Jon was theirs._ Arya and Jon drew apart when she approached but when Jon caught sight of her the smile froze on his face.

And she knew the exact same thing had happened to her.

Jon was the very image of their father. With his matted black hair, cloudy grey eyes, and serious long face he could be Eddard Stark's twin. The sight of him made her heart ache and she had to swallow the sudden rush of tears that threatened to fall. She could see that he was struggling too – for the sight of her no doubt brought back painful memories of Catelyn Stark's indifference. Their reunion was awkward. Jon pressed a clumsy kiss to the back of her hand and quickly retreated to his companions before Sansa could think of anything to say and she felt like an utter fool.

The four newcomers dropped to their knees before Daenerys, who gestured for them to rise, and introductions were made. The man with the burning stag on his chest did indeed turn out to be Stannis Baratheon who in turn introduced the sea weathered man as Lord Davos. "I hear you crowned yourself a king," Daenerys murmured quietly but Stannis did not even flinch. Intimidation would not work with this one, who looked to be made from iron and stone.

"I was the rightful heir after Robert, aye."

"But Robert Baratheon was a usurper. The Baratheon's are not Targaryen's."

Something flickered across Stannis's face for a second. "I have no qualms in calling you my queen, your highness. The fires might have blinded me for a moment...but no longer. The Iron Throne is yours by right of birth."

Daenerys nodded, seemingly appeased, and then gestured to the white haired man. "And who might this be?"

The white haired man looked up from beneath his cracked hair and gave her an unsteady bow. He was stooped over so much that he could've been any height. When he opened his mouth Sansa saw that several of his teeth were missing or splintered. The nagging feeling of familiarity once again hit her but she was sure that she knew no one who looked like  _this_...or smelt like this. The man gave off a pungent odour. "Reek...My name is Reek..." There was an unsettling look in his eyes _. They might have once been brown_ , she thought,  _brown flecked with green_. "My name is  _Theon_."

_The Gods were too cruel..._

Her head span but then a steadying hand gripped her shoulder. Her ever loyal Sandor was standing behind her and gently asking if she was alright. Sansa nodded and his face relaxed, though she noticed he had one hand on his sword hilt. "Say the word and I'll cut him from throat to balls," he promised. Sansa took a deep breath and tried to steady her thoughts. She wanted nothing better than to see Theon dead...She had sworn to do it over and over again. For their sweet Bran and little Rickon.

Arya had pushed Theon to the ground and there he still lay, with Ser Barristan's dagger at his throat. He was looking at her. They all were.

"It's your choice, Sansa. I can permit you that," Daenerys offered.

Her choice? Jon was now officially the head of the family...but then he was also a sworn brother of the Night's Watch. It  _was_  up to her.

She looked down at the pathetic carcass that was once Theon Greyjoy and felt disgust. And there deep down, to her shame, was a sliver of pity.  _He is little more than an animal now_.  _Utterly defenceless._ What would her parents do?

"Bind him, and keep him out of my sight. If I see him I may well strangle him myself."

Stannis Baratheon, Davis Seaworth, Jon Snow, and (although his very being repulsed her) Theon Greyjoy all swore themselves to Daenerys, and in time more and more houses arrived to pledge their support. Ravens were sent forth to every maester demanding arms and soon enough Daenerys deemed it time to march to Winterfell. To Arya's disappointment, Stannis had already successfully swept out the Bolton's and so they were spared this one battle. As they travelled north along the Kingsroad Sansa was struck by the vast fields of burnt crops, the abandoned Inn's, and the occasional corpse that had been left outside to rot. It was a far cry from the memories of her childhood and for that she might've wept.

But like everything else she stored it away and kept her mind clear. She would have time enough later to think. First she had to rebuild Winterfell.

It was in a desolate state. During the battle with Stannis Ramsey Snow had once again put it to the torch and so when they arrived it was little more than a smoking shell. Sansa held onto Arya's hand so tightly that her knuckles turned white as they viewed the damage to their home. Winter Town was almost completely gone but some of its inhabitants were still squatting in the ruins.  _My people_ , Sansa thought grimly, eyeing their rags and skinny bones. Most upsetting of all was the damage to the bedrooms and Great Hall. Her father's mighty chair, the seat of Winterfell and the North, was gone...no doubt chopped for kindling long ago. The carefully stained glass windows were smashed, the tapestries were missing (some, she remembered, had been embroidered by her mother. She had even helped), and Bolton banners still hung behind the raised dais. She tore those down herself and ordered them to be burnt immediately. As for the bedrooms...the furs and velvet hangings were long gone, as were the blankets. Remnants of their old lives were littered among the ruins. She sobbed for a whole hour when she found an old doll.

The only saving grace was that the Godswood and family crypt had been left unaffected. She sent out riders to search for the whereabouts of her father's bones but there was nothing she could do for Robb, Bran and Rickon. Theon insisted that he hadn't harmed the Stark boys but she couldn't believe a word that came out of that broken mouth. When she saw the weirwood with its blood red face she turned to Jon Snow and then did something she had never done before. She gently reached out and took hold of his hand, finding it as cold as her own. "Find them. Bring them back to us...if you can." He knew the North better than anybody. Alive or dead she wanted her brothers back.

He swore that he would.

Daenerys had to attend to matters beyond the Wall, but she left two hundred men and Sansa set them to work at once. She wanted Winterfell to look just as it had but all they had for guidance were their shattered memories. Tyrion Lannister proved vital in sketching out the designs for the architects when improvements were needed. Some of the men were assigned to rebuild the walls and roofs while others were instructed to work on the kitchens, armoury and stables. The people that remained of Winter Town were given food and shelter against the cold in return for their services. They were too weak to do any real labour so Sansa had most of them inside carving new wooden beams and furniture under the supervision of Arya. The women she set working on stitching a new Stark banner. "You here to stay then, m'lady?" one of them questioned haughtily, a sickly babe clinging to her hip. She had lost an ear to frostbite and looked tired and stubborn.

"It's about time the Starks reclaimed Winterfell," Sansa told her, leaning forward to inspect the babe. "And I want a large direwolf banner flying from the tallest tower." They had cause to mistrust her, they had seen only cruelty under the Bolton's, and so Sansa was desperate to gain their allegiance.

For months she worked herself into the ground. It was a life completely different to the one she had lived in Braavos. There were no luxuries here; no fine food, no feather bedding, not even regular baths. The only food they could spare was tough and tasteless. She wore the same grey woollen dress until it unravelled and kept her hair tied up away from her face. Every day was filled with gruelling work, especially when it snowed, and soon her body began to ache. She was so unused to physical labour that she went to bed every night with cold sore limbs, though she never once complained. Her people would thank her constantly for her kindness and with every turn of the moon the once skinny children became fatter. She knew it would be worth it in the end...they just had to get there.

One night she retired early and sat before the fire, gently massaging her bruised ankle. The steps outside were slippery with ice and she had fallen awkwardly on her foot. Sandor arrived unannounced as always and without a word took over. Sansa would've scolded him for the inappropriateness if she had the strength but instead relaxed back into the chair and sighed. "It's coming together, Sandor."

He was kneeling at her feet and his touch was gentler than she could have ever imagined. He always touched her as though she might break. "Still a lot to do."

"We have roofs and thick doors now. The outer wall is almost complete too, thank the Gods. Once that's done I can move the builders inside - it'll really speed up then. Tomorrow I'm to inspect the glass gardens and Daenerys says I can import the glass straight from Myr," she proudly ran a finger along the arm of her chair and pointed out the little engravings. "One of the men from Winter Town has a talent for wood carving, see? I'm hoping he'll help in the Great Hall."

She could see that his mind was elsewhere. "Daenerys sent me raven this morning. By the by, your new maester is as unfit as an old hog. He nearly died after climbing those stairs."

Sansa frowned. "Sam's a nice man, don't tease him. What's this about a letter...?"

"There are some wildlings causing trouble on the Queensroad. I'll need to drive them off."

"Can't someone else do it?" It seemed amazing that she should still need him at her side. She had no problem addressing the men and there were plenty of guards to watch over them. Still, the idea of being without him did not sit well with her.

"Who?" he smiled wryly. "You and your bow? I'm no use here, Sansa, I was made for fighting. Besides, you need someone to scout the surrounding areas. The Wolfswood too. We need to make sure the land is sound before we send out anymore hunting parties."

Sansa deliberately pulled her foot from his grasp and sat up. She hoped that she looked cross but he did have a point. The surrounding areas could be swarming with wildlings and they would have no idea. "Fine," she said, sounding sulkier than she'd intended.

"I won't be too long and then when I get back you can boast about all the new improvements," he chuckled. "It  _is_ coming along quickly. Make sure you aren't pushing them too hard. Don't settle quality for speed."

"Winter is coming," she reminded him.

"Always looking forward."

"You know Daenerys used to say that if she looked back she was lost. I thought it was clever at first...but it's wrong. We  _need_  to look back. We need to remember. If we forget who we are we'll be lost."

Sandor considered her for a moment and she felt herself blush under his scrutiny. She decided that she was sat too close to the fire – it was making her pulse race uncomfortably. Just as she was about to move Sandor leant forward and he brushed his burnt lips against her forehead. It was hardly a kiss and yet sweeter than she could've ever wished for.

"I'll be back soon."

After he left she spent a long time staring into the fire, nursing the strange twist in her stomach.  _I'm just lonely_ , she thought.  _Under normal circumstances I would be married by now._ When the coldness struck people turned to one another for warmth and affection, and it often resulting in infants. She had warned the women to keep their legs crossed over the following months as they had no spare resources for children...but she had come across more than one couple entwined in a shadowy corridor. She couldn't begrudge them the companionship. Some nights she dreamt of waking up beside a lover and feeling the warmth of his embrace...sometimes she ached to be kissed, to be touched, to be held...but she was the notoriously elegant Sansa Stark. Who would  _dare_ to touch her?

Even back in Braavos it was the same. The city was a beautiful nest of romance and secret trysts and it was important to learn how to close your ears, as well as your eyes. She knew of some women who took several lovers at once – even at the same time – and had been shocked to learn from Leah that it was not an uncommon practice that side of the Narrow Sea. She knew she had seemed immature to the courtesans of the Palace of Silk and heard some of the sniggers but her sense of being  _proper_  was drilled too far into her to change. She would always think about her mother and what she would've said about such things.

She would never take a lover. She no longer believed in princes and knights, but that did not extinguish her respect for marriage. Her mother had loved her father with all her heart. That was proper and as it should be.

Still, it was the first time that she had felt that way about  _Sandor_.

For the first time in years she allowed herself to think about Sandor's feelings. She was not blind. She knew full well about his past love for her. Once, back when they arrived in Braavos, she had been confused as to why their relationship was so unstable but growing up she had realised it was simply because he'd never wanted to be her  _friend_. He had wanted more. His inner struggles, his drinking, his shouting were all ways to punish her and push her away from learning the truth. She had felt his gaze when he thought she was not looking too many times to number. As she grew, as her hips widened and her breasts became full, he had watched with resentful eyes.

She knew all of this and it made her burn to think on it. She had never once taken pleasure from his covert looks or consciously encouraged it, but at the same time it made her feel wicked. Guilty, even.

She was still awake at dawn when a maidservant came rushing into the room.

"M'Lady," she greeted, struggling to catch her breath. "A woman. She's gone into labour an' needs a maester."

Sansa rushed to her feet and permitted her to run and get Sam. No matter what she was feeling life in Winterfell persisted. She numbly set off to do her duty.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys wants a feast

The glass gardens of Winterfell had always been a place of refuge and silent reflection and so Sansa was eager to see them rebuilt. Lady Catelyn had banned the young Stark children from entering the gardens but that didn't mean they didn't sneak the odd blackberry out. One time she and Jeyne Poole had been lamenting over the beautiful blue roses so Robb and Theon dared to sneak inside and they came back with a whole armful. She'd never been so pleased. She walked among the ruins now, her grey skirts trailing through the dead plants and shattered glass. Beside her walked Tyrion Lannister who surveyed the damage while taking notes.

"We can't afford to rebuild it before the kitchens," Sansa admitted. "But perhaps we could plant some seeds. By the time they're grown the kitchens ought to be done." It would be a good source of fruit and vegetables during the long winter and Maester Samwell assured her it would greatly benefit the men's health.

"What sort of plants did you have in mind?"

"Blackberries," she answered immediately, running her fingers across a bench of dead ferns. "All sorts of fruits and vegetables. We can save the flowers for later, they aren't really a necessity."

"The glass gardens of Casterly Rock only grew flowers. Stiff perfect things that never really looked real," Tyrion replied lightly and Sansa glanced back at him. For a Lannister he wasn't truly terrible. He had saved her once, in his own way, all those years ago in King's Landing and she would never forget it. He usually refrained from talking about his family, especially around Daenerys, but Sansa suspected that inside he was torn. He had already petitioned to have Tommen and Myrcella Baratheon spared but the queen was determined to have the Kingslayer's head and it was rumoured that the Lannister brothers were close.

"You'll be Lord of Casterly Rock when this is all done, perhaps you can change it," Sansa pointed out gently. "Or will you continue to serve as the Queen's Hand?"

"I don't have the stomach to face those ghosts. I will stay with the queen in whatever capacity she'll have me...and I take up little room." He was looking down at his sketches intently to avoid her gaze but the shaking of his hands betrayed his true feelings. Sansa was tempted to reach out and comfort him but the Lannister Imp was proud and would not want her sympathy.

"You should stop running away from them. I have. For a long time I thought the queen –  _Cersei_ , rather - would have my head," Sansa admitted. "You aren't like them."

She heard him swallow and he awkwardly rubbed at the scar on his nose. "I should have protected you more. I knew the kingsguard beat you and yet I did nothing."

She waved her hand. "Hush. You did more than most." And in this day and age that counted for something.

There was an awkward pause and she left him to finish his sketches alone. As she walked through the castle several of the workmen shouted down to her and she replied with cheerful greetings. She was beginning to feel at home among these –  _her_  – people. This morning she had been summoned to a birth but no matter how much the mother and Maester Samwell laboured the child was lost. It saddened Sansa's heart more than she cared to admit, even if she still officially condoned pregnancies. However impractical, the idea of a baby among this wreckage was a sweet one and she would secretly look forward to the first birth. A baby signalled life and new beginnings. The poor mother was still being tended to and Sansa made sure to check in on her way to her solar.

The solar had once belonged to her lady mother. It was smaller than that of Eddard Stark's but warmer and cosier with a large hearth – no doubt a gallant gesture on her father's part to make his southeron lady feel more at home. Parchment and letters were scattered across the desk – some baring news from scouts while others contained so called sightings of her missing brothers. Sansa shifted through them quickly but her heart was not in it. Ever since returning to the North she had dreamt tirelessly of her brothers. Her brave brother Robb was lost to her, his handsome head sawn mercilessly from his body, and she was beginning to think that she would never see Bran or Rickon again either. In her dreams they would plead for her, calling her name over and over like a chant. She sat in her mother's high backed chair, one of the few things to survive the sack, and poured herself a cup of sweet wine before summoning Theon Greyjoy.

He looked even worse in the stark light of day. He had been scrubbed from head to foot and given fresh garb to wear but still seemed to smell of decay. His once pleasant face was gaunt and dark shadows hung beneath his eyes. They were blank and revealed nothing.  _What has happened to you?_ She wanted to ask. Before leaving Jon Snow had spoken about Ramsey Snow's vicious treatment and his fondness for flaying. " _He has been whipped, flayed, and mutilated beyond repair. Treated like a dog."_

"Let me see your hand," she commanded, firmly setting her cup aside.

Hesitantly, with a sharp grimace of pain, Theon peeled off his gloves and held out a battered hand. Three of the fingers had been cut off at the knuckle and the surviving skin was raw and festered. Sansa leant forward to examine them but pulled away when he let out another hiss of pain.

"They haven't been treated. What of your teeth?"

He opened his mouth and once again she viewed the wreck that was his mouth. She felt a need to wretch.

"I should have you killed. You'd be better off, I think."

Theon remained silent and she felt the sudden urge to shake his shoulders. "You saved Jeyne Poole. Why?" The poor girl had turned up on their march north and Sansa's heart went out to her. Gone was the pretty girl of her childhood and in her place stood a skinny battered girl, whose nose had succumbed to frostbite. Sansa initially felt awkward around the girl, feeling guilty that she had not checked on her earlier, but her sobs had been enough to warrant an embrace. She now spent most of her time tending to the wounded with Maester Sam but every now and then accompanied Sansa. She had apologised to Arya for stealing her name but they all knew it had not been her idea.

"He was hurting her. She kept crying...She - she would not remember her name."

"And yet you killed two little boys," her voice was sharper than she'd intended.

"Those were the miller boys.  _I had to_. Bran and Rickon ran away."

"You were like a brother to them. I used to watch you train with Robb and Jon in the courtyard. You were handsome then..."

She felt the tears at last. They ran silently down her cheeks and she tasted salt when they met her lips. It was only then did Theon move. He took an unsteady step forwards but the glare she sent him stopped him right in his tracks. If Lady had still been alive she would be ringing his neck by now. Sansa felt ashamed when she struck him and her hand stung from the impact.

"Go to the maester and get something for your fingers. Tell him I sent you."

His stench lingered and she curled herself up on the chair, fingering the armrests. She thought about the Theon Greyjoy she'd known and lost; the cocky smile and playful voice. Was he really telling the truth? Jon Snow seemed to think so, as did Lord Davos. Sandor had been his usual blunt self, "If she can hatch three bloody dragons than anything is possible." She supposed  _that_  was true, at least.

About two months after their departure Daenerys returned with her first victory. Her dragons had burnt the White Walkers into a crisp in a second field of fire and reported that for now the Wall was secure. Her beautiful face lit up in delight as she relayed the news and called for a feast to celebrate. "A feast to mark the beginning of a new age," she insisted and her warriors cheered at the promise of drink.

Sansa was more than a little put out, seeing as their stocks were still low and there was news of a dreadful snow storm on its way. However, the young queen would not be put off and so for a week rebuilding was paused as they prepared for a grand feast. The only good thing about it, as far as Sansa could see, was that it drew Sandor home. He arrived back that very evening with a dozen black cloaked riders and she met him in the courtyard. Snow was falling and she noticed that he had snowflakes in his matted hair.

"So you've killed your wildlings and come crawling back for a feast," she kept her arms crossed and ignored the fluttering in her belly. "We have no room for more hungry mouths."

Sandor smirked as he dismounted. "Sansa, little bird, hush. I've been securing your bloody Winterfell. You could at least pour me a horn of mulled wine."

"Jeyne!" she called and the girl appeared at her side huddled in furs. "Find a skin of water for Sandor. The poor thing is parched." And with that she turned on her heel and went back inside to check on the kitchens.

She had enough to do without those silly feelings in her stomach. She had thought long and hard about it during the previous night and come to the conclusion that she would ignore it. It was foolish to think about butterflies when there were people around her starving. She was a Stark and she had duties to attend to.  _Family, duty, honour._  She questioned the women in the kitchens about the fare for the feast and they all looked uncomfortable. "Please, m'lady, we have hardly enough for ourselves." That was true enough. The kitchens were only partially rebuilt and the women openly grumbled about the dragon queen's tall request. Beneath their breaths they muttered about what right she had to demand things of Winterfell in the first place.

"Send out Luka and the boys for whatever they can catch. Arya will help. Do we have enough ale?"

"Plenty of that, m'lady."

"Well at least that's something. Maybe if we get them blind drunk they'll forget about what they're eating."

Luka was a youngish man of two and one who had a knack for hunting and Arya was always quick with her eyes. Luckily they arrived back that evening with several pheasants and a great big goose. Even the little stable boy managed to catch a dozen pigeons with his nets. The fare was less than expected for a great feast but with hard work they managed to turn it into a passable offering. Pigeon pies packed with vegetables and gravy, charred pheasants, and hollowed out loaves of bread filled with gravy were passed down the long tables with the stuffed goose sent straight to Daenerys at the head table. The young queen seemed bemused by the northern fare but ate everything with a polite smile, no doubt dreaming of the rich food she was used to.

Only once she was seated behind the dais did Sansa begin to relax. The feasting people in the hall looked cheerful and giddy as they knocked back the ale and shoved each other playfully. She was seated between Ser Barristan and Sandor and enjoyed their gentle teasing as they begged her to stop worrying. There were no musicians in Winterfell (but then that was nothing new) but several of the men knew how to strum a lute and once the alcohol began to set in there were loud renditions of all the old bawdy songs. Sansa clapped and cheered along with the rest when they finished the Lusty Lad and struck up the Bear and Maiden Fair. Unlike Daenerys, who was dressed in a lavish gown of black and red velvet, Sansa was dressed in a simple woollen gown of light blue with her hair hanging loose around her shoulder. She thought she would miss the exotic loose dresses of the Free Cities but it was simply too cold here to really notice. At least the dress she was wearing was moderately new and she had spent all afternoon scrubbing the mud from the hem. For the first time in her life, for she had been still a child before Braavos, she was expected to wear a corset and she found it both uncomfortable and impractical.

A cheer rose up when Asha Greyjoy spurned the advances of Luka by knocking him over and she laughed. She noticed that Sandor was drinking and sent him a playful scowl. "It's a feast," he shrugged, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "Lighten up and get that down you," he said, gesturing to her own cup. Sansa sipped at the foul liquid but eventually it started to warm up her insides and she felt her cheeks flush. She was only used to a cup or two of sweet wine. Soon enough dancing was called for and the long tables were pushed back against the walls to make room. She was reminded of the feast for King Robert all those years ago and felt satisfied that things were getting back to normal...

She watched as the people partnered up and began to dance to some sort of jig. There was a distinct lack of ladies to partner up with so Daenerys and Sansa were called upon to join in. There were no real steps but Sansa's partner simply moved them to the music and she began to loosen up and enjoy it. Afterwards an idea struck her, and she beckoned to Sandor.

"You promised me this dance, remember."

"Not now," he shook his head and drained the rest of his tankard. "I can't."

"Yes now." She held out her hands, albeit a little clumsily. The ale was making her giddier than usual but not so much that she couldn't dance. Eventually she convinced him and they took to the dance floor.

The floor was crowded and hot. She felt sweat trickle down her back but amongst the other dancers she didn't care. When she and Sandor came together she grinned and tightly held onto his hands. For once he wasn't scowling, but looking down at her with an unreadable expression.

_Always so serious._

Just then she recalled their first dance back in Braavos, just before he'd fled. Fled to one day come back with an army. He'd dressed up for her especially in a splendid blue tunic while she wore a tantalising white shift. She remembered the warmth of his hands as he held her. That time she had been merry and utterly oblivious, but this time there was a new sort of heat. Every touch left a trail of fire and the smile slid off her face. They were pushed close together in the dance and she swore she could feel his heartbeat against her breast. This was certainly new...

Feeling more bold than wise she leant up and once again kissed his cheek. Only this time he turned his head and fiercely captured her lips with his own.

She tasted sour ale. She tasted  _warmth_.

She wasn't sure who pushed who away first. He was glancing up at the dais nervously and then pulling her away from the feast. She stumbled after him, still reeling from the shock of what had happened. The music was fainter out in the hall and further along she could make out the lines of several embracing couples.

"I don't think they saw," she murmured, her voice sounding hoarse. He tried to hold her but she felt nervous of watchful eyes. One or two of the couples were gawking at them. "Wait..."

" _Sansa_."

Behind him she heard the doors to the banquet open and quickly disentangled herself, leading him up the stairs to an old tower. It was little more than rubble with a partially open stone wall. It was snowing outside and she instantly felt the cold shake her limbs. Goose pimples spread across her arms. "They'll be looking for me."

"I want you," Sandor rasped. "I want you in my bed. Every day and every night, cursing my name into my ear." He had a hold on the back of her head and she could feel him clutching onto her hair. As though trying to anchor her down. Her heartbeat was racing. "I would never have you leave it."

"How could this happen?"

"Say you want me too. Don't you dare lie to me. I have wanted this for so long," he murmured and he tried to kiss her again. "Too many days. Far too many nights."

 _They're all liars here...and every one better than you_.

"I...I  _do_. I think I do..."

He pulled away then and the look on his face was suddenly hateful. His dark eyes looked almost black. "You're playing with me?"

"No! I'm not, I swear..." He pushed her up against the crumbling wall and the rough surface scratched her skin. She felt his hardness against her thigh and the thought terrified her.

He cupped her cheek. "Then say it."

Suddenly the face of her father flashed before her eyes, his grey eyes reproaching. And then the face of her mother...her scowl cold and disapproving. Could she really want this man? He was everything wild and coarse. Even his caresses were rough. She watched as his face slowly dropped but couldn't find the words to fix it. She couldn't. She was a Stark of Winterfell. Made from ice and snow. She would not behave like a back alley whore.

_I can't._

"They'll be looking for me..." she whispered. It was so cold that her breath looked like smoke. "I have to go."

She slipped from his grip but before leaving she risked looking back. The look he gave her reminded her of a wounded animal and she felt a stab of pity. She knew she was being unfair to him. In hindsight she should never have brought him up here but she had been confused and afraid of being seen.

"Fly away, little bird," he murmured.

She gave him a timid smile and he returned it reluctantly.

_At least there's that._

That night she dreamt of Lyanna Stark, the aunt she had never known. Just a girl, really. No older than herself. How she had lost everything to run away with the man she thought she loved and in doing so dragged the Seven Kingdoms into civil war.  _Have you never experienced passion? Aye, one day you'll feel it. You'll want something so much that you can hardly breathe. You'll kill for them. Risk a kingdom for them._  She shied away from the familiar words, feeling them stab through her chest like a knife.  _"Like my aunt Lyanna? That's what the crown prince Rheagar did. He abducted her and ruined her. There's nothing virtuous in that."_  There was no virtue in the impulsive. That was what she had been taught. Family, duty, honour. Winter is coming.

And yet she still ached. She slowly dipped a hand between her legs and found herself warm and willing. She'd been told what to do by her Braavosi handmaidens but never tried it properly before. She began to gently brush herself, feeling at once both shame and elation. She thought about what happened in the marriage bed and tried to picture Sandor's scarred face hovering above her now. What would that feel like?

No, she would not succumb to Lyanna's mistakes. She stopped and hugged her pillow to her chest instead, waiting for her heartbeat to steady. It was some time before she dropped off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am genuinely quite worried about this chapter so please tell me what you think. I didn't want Sandor to go out of character. It's been a while since he's had a drink and I expect it hit it harder than he thought. In the books he always gets a bit angsty when he's ad a few...


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decisions

 

"Willas Tyrell," Sansa read out loud, "is intelligent, well read, and set to inherit Highgarden and all of its riches in the Reach. He also owns the best horses and falcons in the Seven Kingdoms."

"Which is exactly what any woman wants to hear," Leah laughed appreciatively. "He's almost twenty years older than you and a cripple besides."

A dozen open letters sat scattered across Sansa's desk, each containing careful proposals of marriage. Some were informal, boasting dry promises of mutual benefit, while others praised her kindness and beauty. Not a word was mentioned about her wit, strength, or intellect – a fact that amused Sansa no end. "They've never even met you," Arya had frowned. "They just want Winterfell."

_They always have._

Still, it was wicked fun to giggle with the other girls and hear Arya scorn the matches. As she had no real intention of picking any she found it easy enough to push aside her guilt and enjoy the morning. Leah, Sansa and Jeyne sat around the fireplace while Arya leant back against the desk, noisily crunching on an apple. No matter how many times Sansa begged she refused point blank to leave her little sword in her room and so it hung in its customary place at her hip. They'd spent the morning pouring over the letters and picking out their favourite verses, all the while snacking on sweet meats and orange slices. Willas Tyrell was just one of the names...there was a Blackwood, a Mallister, the new Hardying heir, a Manderly, a Martell, a Karstark, even a remote Lannister cousin! Sansa threw  _that_  proposition straight into the fire without a second thought, even though Tyrion himself had vouched for him. A Royce suitor presented her with a beautiful cloak made from shadowcat fur and the Manderly heir sent up carts of exotic fruits and wines (which they'd promptly began to sample). Willas Tyrell had given her a comb laced with emeralds and freshwater peals which she pronounced too gaudy to ever wear in the north. She remembered Loras Tyrell and how beautiful he'd been with his brown curls and bright eyes...that was back when everything was good in the world.

"Harrold Hardying is said to be ever so handsome," Jeyne Poole ventured quietly. A kitten sat on her lap and now and then Jeyne would stroke its white fur.

Sansa had long ago learnt the real value of handsome men and so simply shrugged before carefully slicing open another waxen seal. The jewelled letter opener had been a gift from the Martell house – beautiful and deadly it was said to resemble their chosen suitor perfectly. "A Baelish!"

" _Littlefinger_! What does that old rat want?" Arya snickered. "He had the most stupid pointy beard."

"He must be eager to cement his alliance with Daenerys," Sansa considered thoughtfully. Only yesterday he had sent a letter to the queen affirming his loyalty and the promise of six thousand Vale knights. "Still, Aunt Lysa only passed away three weeks ago. It's rather soon to remarry." And she was secretly thankful for it. She was aware of the rumours between Littlefinger and her mother and had no desire to linger on them.

"It must be the thought of your luscious breasts and wide hips that gets them going," Leah chuckled, quoting directly from the vulgar Karstark letter, and they all laughed.

Sansa had risen early that morning to apologise to Sandor but no matter how hard she looked he was nowhere to be found in the castle. She'd enquired at the stables and one of the lads, blushing down at his boots, finally told her that he'd ridden out before sunrise. Her actions last night were embarrassing and she only hoped that he would not hate her for it. She wanted so much to confide in Arya or Leah but they would never understand...to them Sandor was still the Hound and a brute; a murderer, even. Arya, in particular, could not understand why Sansa had forgiven his previous crimes. She insisted that her rescue did little to absolve him of his countless sins. In her usual black and white view of things, she would always paint Sandor as a Lannister man and therefore no better than scum.

She wished he would hurry back.

Sansa put aside the Baelish letter and walked over to the window overlooking the courtyard. One of Jon Snow's brothers was showing three young boys how to properly use their swords and she was reminded of her brothers when they used to train. She and Jeyne Poole would peek from the kitchens to watch and giggle if they fell over. She looked over at her shoulder at Jeyne and felt a familiar stab of sympathy for the poor girl. Last week the kitchen cat had given birth to a litter of mewing kittens and Sansa thought a pet would do wonders to cheer Jeyne up. Ever since her humiliating marriage to Ramsey Bolton – or Ramsey Snow as they came to call him - Jeyne found it hard to cope with crowds but she was slowly coming back to life. Arya was surprisingly gentle with her.  _She was forced to grow up too quickly_ , Sansa realised,  _that could've been me._

She was about to pour a drink when the doors swung forward and the queen was announced. They all rose to curtsey, even Arya, and Sansa offered her a cheerful greeting. The queen was dressed in a beautiful gown of red velvet that was so rich it made Sansa ache to touch it. Her straight silver hair fell loosely down her back and she was wearing a very plain golden circlet at her brow – a simple token to demonstrate her authority. Daenerys looked surprised to see all of them together and Sansa thought she saw a flash of longing flicker across her face.  _She is lonely_ , she thought,  _it must be hard to be a queen at such a tender age._

"I don't wish to intrude," Daenerys apologised softly, taking the seat that Sansa offered. "But the maester said another letter has arrived for your hand."

"From Willas Tyrell, your grace. He's the heir to Highgarden," Sansa added. She poured the queen a goblet of lemon water and Daenerys nodded her thanks.

"Might you leave us for a moment?" She nodded to Jeyne and Leah who left at once – although obviously eager to stay and listen. "I don't wish to lecture you, Lady Sansa. I myself was sold into a marriage and even though I came to love my sun and stars I would never wish for you to take that same gamble."

"I am still ten and five. I have many years left to marry."

"Of course. I only ask that you consult me in your decision. As the head of a prominent family your marriage is of interest to the realm and there are many who would try to use you for your claim."

"I understand your concern," Sansa replied quietly and sat back down. "But for now it is my intention to remain unwed. There is still far too much to do here without thinking of marriage. Winterfell is not yet rebuilt."

"Any man who marries Sansa will inherit Winterfell," Arya pointed out in her ever blunt manner. "We've worked too hard to let it slip away now."

"I quite agree, and I've seen how the small folk have taken to you. I wish Winterfell to remain firmly in Stark hands," the queen added seriously, after taking a long sip from her cup. "However, my fear is that once I reclaim the south you will be cohered into marrying a man from the Riverlands or the Vale, and I obviously cannot allow you – and him -  _that_  much power. One kingdom is more than enough."

Sansa could tell that the queen was itching to say something and she crossed her arms carefully in preparation. "You have a match in mind, then?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. A betrothal."

"To a southeron lord? I tell you now that I will marry no Lannister."

"To Jon Snow."

Sansa raised an eyebrow and tried to phrase her words carefully – she did not want to cause offence when the queen was obviously taken with the idea. "Your grace...Jon is my brother. A half-brother, admittedly, but we still share the same father. That is not the Stark way..."

"Once perhaps, but no longer. You'll have to forgive my deceit but I was reluctant to...well," Daenerys cleared her throat before continuing. A faint frown stretched across her brow and she suddenly spoke irritably. The subject was obviously not her favourite. "Jon Snow is the offspring of my royal brother and your aunt. A Targaryen bastard, instead of a Stark one."

The following silence was so thick that they could hear the clashing of practise swords outside.

Arya looked furious. "How could you know that? Rheagar and Lyanna are long dead."

"When we arrived several witnesses, including a Howland Reed, stepped forward and their accounts matched up. I couldn't see what they would gain from lying – as a bastard he will still inherit nothing. His last name may change from a Snow to a Waters but that's all. I then asked Jon if he would permit me a small test and he managed to walk through my Viserion's fire unharmed. I wanted to be sure before I made it official."

Arya struggled for a moment and then turned her back. She had always been closest to Jon and so the news obviously struck her the hardest. Sansa remained still, struggling for words.

"I understand your surprise. It was a surprise to me too – I am hardly old enough to be anyone's aunt," the queen added.

"Sansa can't marry Jon!" Arya burst out, her shoulders square. She turned back around and scowled.

Daenerys looked unmoved although this time she spoke only to Sansa. Her violet eyes were bright with expectation. "If you consent to a betrothal I will give you the North. You will be a free and independent kingdom. Otherwise I will expect you to marry another Northern lord of my choosing – I just cannot risk you marrying southwards."

"Jon will never agree. As a child I was cruel to him," Sansa murmured.

"He already knows. I discussed it with him before he left. His only care is that you aren't being forced into anything."

Slowly Sansa nodded. "I will think on it."

"Think about it carefully. A betrothal 'til you turn seventeen." Daenerys got to her feet, looking appeased. "I will not order you to marry him but I hope you'll agree. I really would like Winterfell to remain in your possession."

Once she was gone the two Stark sisters exchanged incredulous looks. Arya moved forward and gingerly took hold of her hand, unused to making such an intimate gesture. After a moment she let go but Sansa didn't mind, her mind was still elsewhere. "What are you going to do?"

"The Gods only know," she answered and rubbed her forehead.

"You don't have to marry."

But she would have to one day. No matter how high she climbed or how many people depended on her it always came down to the fact that she was still a woman. A piece to be traded and used for the advantage of others. Cersei had known it and so did Daenerys, even if they were both too stubborn to admit it. Sansa tried to imagine herself married to a northern lord – a Cerwyn or even a Karstark – but their peace was still fragile and picking one house would quickly bring scorn upon the others. She could also never forget that several of the lords – the Dustin's, especially - had sworn themselves to Roose Bolton and in her heart she could never forgive that. Were her mother still alive she would've sent half the suitors packing for their cheek ( _a Mallister marry a Stark!_ ) but in this new age all the houses were scrambling for better positions.

Just then they heard the sound of horses and they both peered curiously out of the window. Sansa watched as a dozen black riders came racing into the courtyard and her first thoughts were of Sandor. Perhaps there'd been an accident, though she could see no stretcher. The rider in front pulled back his hood and she watched in relief as Jon Snow summoned a servant. There was a small bundle of cloth in his arms. "What is that..." It seemed to be moving. She then saw a flash of auburn hair.

_No..._

" _Sansa!"_

She ran as quickly as she could, her boots skidding across the scrubbed flagstones. In an instant her careful grace and manners were forgotten and when she turned a corner she sent a scullery maid flying. She could not remember the last time she'd ran so quickly – perhaps it was back in the Red Keep when Septa Mordane urged her to hide? Her heart was pounding but inside her mind was willing her to go on. She wore no cloak but that didn't stop her from racing outside into the snow white courtyard.

Beside Jon's direwolf Ghost stood a scrawny boy of about six years. His hair was a mess of matted curls but his eyes were clear, blue, and more importantly  _Tully_. He was nervously sucking a thumb as he stared up around him, obviously lost.

"Rickon..." Her voice rose to a shout. "Rickon!"

He turned, his eyes brightening with recognition, and threw himself into her waiting arms. Her legs buckled beneath the weight and they fell back into the snow but she was long beyond caring. She held her little brother tightly, nuzzling kisses into his hair, as he pressed his sobbing face to her chest. She remembered a chubby little toddler who used to trail after his brothers and then crawl onto her lap for stories and songs. He used to laugh when she kissed his nose. This boy was different. Even through his furs she could feel that he was too skinny and his pale face had a pinched look about it.

She too was crying in earnest and she felt him take hold of her plait, worrying it between his fingers as though he would never let go. His tears stained the front of her dress while her own rolled down into his tangled curls.

For a long time she simply held him. He smelt like the earth, of soil, of the  _cold_.

She was distantly aware of surprised voices, of questions and loud laughter, but for now she ignored everybody else. She looked down at the little boy on her lap and used her sleeve to wipe away the tears from his muddy cheeks. His eyes were so like Robb's.

"Hello, little one."

"Sansa?" His voice was timid, shy almost, even after their display. She noticed that his nails were bitten back to the quick.

She let out a choked laugh. "Yes, I'm Sansa. I'm your sister."

"Are we home?"

"We're home, sweetling, and we'll never leave." She swore then that she would protect this boy with her life. He would want for nothing for as long as she lived. Just as their mother would've wanted.

Only then did she look up into Jon Snow's Stark grey eyes. He was watching them intently, with an anxious smile on his lips.  _He will always be a Stark inside. He is no dragon._ "Thank you for my brother."

He bowed. "My lady."

Rising to her feet, she lifted Rickon up and carried him back inside to find Arya.

That evening the remaining Starks took solace in Sansa's private rooms. Sansa sat before the fire with Rickon crouched on the furs by her feet. Arya sat by him, combing the tangles from his hair with more care than she had ever previously shown. Carefully Jon Snow and Lord Davos had explained about finding Rickon hidden away in the company of a wildling woman named Osha. She'd been intent on taking him to the wild Isle of Skaggos. When Sansa heard that she clapped a hand over her mouth and shuddered, thinking about all the terrible tales Old Nan used to tell about the island of cannibals, monsters, and ghosts. That was no place for a person, let alone a child. When Rickon began to yawn Sansa summoned Leah to take him to bed. "Sleep tight," she whispered, kissing his hot forehead goodnight.

"I want to stay with you," he murmured, his eyelids only half open, and so she tucked him up in her own bed. Later that night when she crawled into bed Rickon cuddled up beside her and she felt grateful for his presence. The wind outside howled but inside she felt warm and loved.

The next day was free from snow and so she rode out with an escort of a dozen men to inspect the restoration of Winter Town. Several of the buildings had been in dire need of repairs but the town was slowly coming to life and the people came flooding back. It was a strain on their resources but Sansa maintained that too many hands were more useful than none at all. Every person was put to work, whether it was building, farming, or nursing the ill. There was a sense of understanding among the people of Winter Town that rebuilding their homes and storing food were the main priorities. Several of the people called out to Sansa as she rode past and she made sure to stop and talk with them. One of the Inn's was completed and she shared a simple meal of winter broth with the Innkeeper, his wife, and his brood of six children. One of the eldest boys was called Eddard, presumably named for her late father, who requested he might join the castle guards.

"It's hard work," Sansa warned. "I still have yet to find a Master at Arms."

"He's tougher than he looks, m' lady," his father assured her. "It's safer up there behind those big walls o' yours. Down here you don't know friend from foe. 'Sides it's one less mouth for us to feed."

"Then I'll gladly have you. You can accompany me back tomorrow if you're ready."

And so the next day Eddard joined her party as they rode back to Winterfell. The snows had resumed and they were anxious to get home before dark so they took a more direct road than usual. Away from the Inn the lad revealed that he seldom got along with his father's new wife and was so relieved to finally get away. Sansa found his coarse talk surprisingly refreshing though Erik (the unofficial captain of her guards) scowled.  _Arya will like him,_  she found herself thinking.

They were about a mile from the castle when the first arrow struck. It came out of nowhere and shot one of her guards straight through the gut. Surprised, the man fell silently from his horse and landed in a heap on the cold hard ground. Before she could even think a cloud of wildlings were upon them and attacking with blunt dirks and ruthless hands. They had ridden right into an ambush. Sansa tried to rein her horse around but the poor beast was too frightened and refused to move. She suddenly felt hands grabbing at her cloak and hair.

"Ride, my lady!" Erik shouted before he too was shot down like a dog. Another man beside him was pulled from his horse and silenced with a quick blow to the head. Sansa looked around and met Eddard's eyes just as an arrow pierced his heart.

Sansa tried to beat the hands away but they were pulling her from the horse. She heard gruff voices arguing over whether to kill her or ransom her and she felt sudden tears of anger run down her cheeks.  _Not now. I've just found Rickon_. One of the men holding her smelt like manure and she desperately clawed at his face with her teeth and nails. He let her go with a shriek of pain, holding a bleeding eye, and she ran as quickly as she could into the snow. She could taste blood.

Up ahead of her was a forest of some sort and she hurried towards it, very aware of the archer and rushed footsteps following her. The weight of her cloak was dragging her back but she would be dead for certain if she took it off in this weather.

_Her bow._

She still had her bow slung over one shoulder and the little dagger that Sandor insisted she strap to her ankle. She would never be able to get close enough to use the latter but perhaps if luck was with her she could make use of the bow. It would be a chance in a million.

Her hands were shaking badly but she managed to shoot an arrow back towards the hurrying figures.

It struck a wildling right through the neck.

She heard some of the more wild of their workmen refer to her as "the lady kissed by fire" and right at this moment she felt as though she had been. Anger rode off her in waves and she could no longer feel the snow fall against her skin. Quickly, but with a new sudden forcefulness in her step, she hurried into the woods and searched for a place to hide.

_I wish Sandor was here. Or Arya. Or one of Daenerys' dragons..._

She huddled into her cloak, hidden from view by a muddy ditch, and waited them out. She couldn't hear any footsteps and hoped with all her might that they'd panicked and gone back. If they came across her now she would be dead for sure. Slowly nightfall arrived and she had no choice but to leave before the wolves arrived. No matter what house sigil she used her tender flesh would still make a fine meal for a pack of wolves. She hurried back to Winterfell, constantly looking over her shoulder for any movement, and by the time she arrived it was dark and she was a shivering wreck.

"There she is! Lady Sansa is back!"

Kind and gentle hands reached out for her and she welcomed them gladly. The courtyard was a flurry of movement with lit torches and watch fires. She saw Jon Snow, Daenerys, and Jorah Mormont organising search parties but they stopped, staring, as she was brought forward. The sight of her silenced any questions. Her long hair was a ragged mess of knots and brambles and there was a smear of blood across her mouth and stark white cheeks.

Leah was at her side and Arya on the other. "Wildlings..." she muttered shortly. "They...killed Erik and the others. That poor sweet Eddard. He really wanted to come here."

"She's babbling. It could be fever," Arya said, peering into her eyes.

"Help me get her upstairs," Jon decided. "She needs warmth."

"I was bringing him back for safety..."

Careful arms lifted her up and she was carried up to her bedchamber. A fire was quickly made as she was stripped out of her wet clothes and bundled into a thick woollen shift. She was then helped into bed amidst half a dozen heavy blankets and furs to await Maester Samwell who prescribed rest and liquids. Leah was gently brushing out her hair when Ser Barristan begged entry. "First thing in the morning I'll send out a party of riders. We'll find the animals, Sansa, mark my words."

"The bodies..." Her voice was hoarse.

"Aye, we'll bring them back. Give them a proper funeral."

She nodded and fell back against the pillows. Tiredness overtook her and her head swam with the images of those poor guards who had sworn to protect her. She saw the faces of those wildlings too, all caked in mud and cuts, their eyes wide with hunger and desperation. Even here in her comfortable bed she could still feel their grabbing hands. Later, she presumed it was later for the candles were out and Leah gone, she opened her eyes to find Sandor crouched at her side. His black hair looked wet and windblown, as though he'd ridden through the storm to get back.

"Little bird..."

"You're late," she murmured. Her lips felt heavy and clumsy but she was too tired to care.

"I just got back. Are you hurt?"

"I shot one, Sandor. Before I went into the woods. They were chasing me..."

"Hush," he put a hand to her boiling forehead and sighed. "You're in a fever."

"It was so snowy, but I can still see their faces. That poor boy. I was bringing him here for safe keeping. He wanted to be a guard. We have to make sure his body is returned to his family."

"All will be well," he assured her quietly. His face swam before her eyes and she felt a sudden stab of pity for him, for her, and for the two of them.  _My ever loyal Hound. How did we get ourselves into this mess?_  "Now close your eyes."

She did as he bid and for the second time he watched her fall back into a feverish slumber.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was incredibly hard to write so I apologise for anything you may consider sloppy. There should be another two chapters before this is wrapped up :)

 

The fever ran its course for two whole weeks and during that time Sansa was confined to her bedchamber. For the first couple of days she was oblivious to the world, lost in feverish dreams of the dead and murmuring garbled words into her pillow. When she was ill as a child her mother had remained constantly at her side, weaving little charms from rosemary and lavender, while her father gently stroked back the hair from her hot forehead. She sobbed for her parents and in her delirious state didn’t understand why they would not come to her. When the fever finally broke she was ordered to remain in bed until her strength was restored and they spoon fed her greasy broth made up from chunks of vegetables. Leah was a constant presence; she fed her, washed her, and even pressed little kisses to her temple when she cried. She got occasional visits from Maester Samwell and Arya but everybody else was kept well away from her doors in case of infection. When she was able to speak clearly she told them about the ambush and, without even a trace of pride, described shooting the wildling. Arya told her only little snippets of information concerning the world outside but she assured her that the bodies had been properly dealt with and that Daenerys herself was leading a raid on the remaining wildlings. Sansa took no delight in hearing that; only regret for the additional bloodshed.

She wanted to hold Rickon but it was too much of a risk to let him near her. Instead he was brought to the door and they exchanged a few sweet words from across the room. He was frightened and alone, but she swore she would be better soon and promised him a new story about unicorns when she got out.

On her last night of her prescribed bed rest Sandor came in to keep her company and held out a familiar blue flower. “The winter roses are in bloom. Thought you’d like to know.” Sansa took the flower and smiled gratefully, remembering the pretty way the flowers used to trail across the glass gardens. She was propped up in bed by several pillows and her hair, in need of a good wash, hung limply around her shoulders. They remained in silence for a while. Sandor, taking a seat by the ever flickering fire, used a short blunt knife to whittle a stretch of wood. The only sound in the room came from the crackling fire but every now and then they would hear the occasional howl of wolves outside. _Perhaps it’s Ghost._ Since coming back the pure white direwolf preferred to stay outside the castle walls, hunting deer and chasing shadows. Rickon’s direwolf Shaggydog was completely different; the giant black wolf stuck to Rickon like a shadow and snapped at anyone who approached them. Sansa had to ask Rickon to shackle him up outside so as not to frighten the servants. The giant wolf scared her too; he had grown too wild, too savage. She much preferred Ghost’s silent presence.

Sansa remained silent but her thoughts unwillingly flickered to Sandor. Whenever she thought of her future her mind would helplessly drift to the surly sellsword. She didn’t want to _marry_ Sandor, the thought alone was unnerving enough, and yet she felt guilty whenever she thought about marrying anyone else. She felt linked to him somehow. She knew too that any inclination she made of marrying another man would prompt him to leave her for good...and she would not be able to handle that.

Sansa went back to her sewing in an attempt to distract herself but her fingers turned clumsy and useless. She became agitated and far too hot under the layers of fur blankets. With a groan she put aside her sewing and gingerly climbed out of bed to pour a drink but the days of rest had taken their toll on her weak muscles and she had to cling on to the bedpost for support.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He was at her side in a moment. _Of course he is,_ she thought. _Always there to catch me, but never to let me fly free._ “Get back under the sheets.”

He tucked her back into bed and then brought her a glass of water. She sipped it thankfully, all the time aware that her face was flushed from tiredness and embarrassment. In the struggle of standing her nightgown had slipped low over her shoulder and she caught him staring at the exposed flesh. “Sansa...” His voice was rough and too loud for her small room. “I hear you have a number of suitors.”

“Makes no difference now,” she gave him a tight smile, anxious about the direction of conversation. “Now that Rickon is home I’m free to remain unwed.” That was true, at least. Rickon coming home secured her future, as well as Winterfell’s, even if he was only a little scrap of a child. He was now the heir apparent to Winterfell with Sansa acting as regent until he turned ten and five. It gave her the choice to remain unwed for as long as she wished and there was nothing Daenerys or anyone else could do about it. There was still the chance that some ambitious nobleman would coerce her into marrying him while she was still regent - but they would have to face the harsh winter snows and her guards before stealing her.

“You weren’t tempted?”

She put the glass down and straightened her gown. She was tempted to pull the blankets over her head like she used to do when she was a child and still afraid of the dark. “If I married I would have to move away or have some stranger take away my home. I’d lose Winterfell. I don’t think I could bare that.”

“You’d have a companion. Someone to take care of you.”

 She gave a very unladylike snort. “A man to take me to bed, you mean? I have more important things to think about.”

“But...” He seemed to be struggling for the right words and she did not help him. “You don’t want anyone?”

“I’m fifteen years old, Sandor.”

He fell silent and she hoped beyond hope that that would be the end of it, but then he took hold of her hands. She felt an uncomfortable lurch in her stomach. His hands were shaking. Suddenly he looked older than he’d ever done before.

 “Sansa...”

“Don’t. Please don’t say it. I _can’t_ marry you.”

The words tumbled out and instantly his face fell. Her heart was racing but she knew in her mind that it needed to be said. After Rickon’s return she had made up her mind to remain unwed and to remain in Winterfell as her own mistress. Before she could explain herself Sandor excused himself and hurried out of the room. He’d left his cloak.

 _I owe him nothing,_ she tried telling herself and yet still the tears came. _It would be a lie. I cannot return his feelings. I would rather disappoint him now than break his heart later on. I cannot be the wife he wants._

She suddenly wished that he’d never accompanied her to Braavos; that he’d seen her to the ship and then fled. _Would that have been better? Would he still be Sandor or the Hound?_

At that moment Arya came in and Sansa quickly dabbed at her eyes. It was no use though; her sister took one look at her and grimaced. Her sister abhorred tears. Arya took after their father when it came to her expressions and the long frown she gave her was pure Eddard Stark. “Not _him_.” So she knew. She wondered when it had become so obvious. In actual fact Arya had seen all sorts of men fawn over her sister and hoped that it was just another fancy to quickly fade away.

All of a sudden she found it difficult to look her in the eyes and so stared down at the embroidered blankets instead. “You don’t know him.” She could feel her cheeks flushing.

“Thank the Gods. Sansa, I am the last person in the Seven Kingdoms to give a fig about marriage, but listen to me...” She came over and knelt beside her on the bed, resting a hand on her knee. Sansa was so taken back by her actions that she didn’t even notice her sewing falling to the floor. “Anyone but him. Stay a maid for the rest of your life if you care to! Just don’t marry him; he’s a _murderer_. And a brute and a drunk besides.”

“He rescued me.”

“After standing by and letting the other knights beat you bloody. You told me all about it. Did he lift a finger when Joff had you stripped? The bloody _Lannister Imp_ spared you that.” 

Sansa flinched but she could find no answer to give. In the court of Joffrey Baratheon no one had been eager to speak up and be singled out for future torment. She understood his actions and had long ago forgiven him but she couldn’t very well explain that to her sister, who in her simple way saw everything in black and white.

Arya continued, “He rescued you, aye, and wormed his way into your heart at the same time. You were easy prey for a man like that.”

Was that how it was? She could scarce believe that this was Arya speaking – Arya, who had never before taken an interest in Sansa’s romantic feelings (apart to scorn them) - was looking at her with pity. Her words felt like a blunt edge of a sword slicing at her chest. To her horror Sansa felt herself begin to cry again.

 _Some great Lady of Winterfell_.

“I told him I would never marry him.”

Her sister’s face suddenly softened and her voice turned sympathetic. “You should put it away. It’ll never happen. Daenerys will never let it happen, for starters.” That was true. Any nobleman, even from a lowly jump start family, would be offended if she married into House Clegane for the Mountain’s terrible legacy alone.

“He’s never hurt me,” she said weakly.

“That’s not a good enough reason to marry someone. D’ you remember what father said back when he was King Robert’s Hand?” she prompted. “He wanted to find you someone brave, gentle and strong. Sandor Clegane is none of those things...not really.”

She thought back to the night of Daenerys’ feast and saw Sandor’s lust and disappointment. “He’ll hate me.”

“You owe him nothing.”

Sansa hung her head and Arya tried to hold her. It was an awkward embrace, filled with skinny limbs and embarrassed murmurs, but she could sense the emotion behind it and appreciated it. It had been an unsettling conversation but she knew she had done the right thing, even if he did decide to leave and break her heart. It was only right...especially if he expected otherwise.

It was too late to take back her words so she would have to live with them. However, she would come to find that she’d underestimated his feelings...and his bitterness.

When she was finally deemed fit enough to leave the first thing she did was to wrap herself up in a fur cloak and visit the Sept. Hardly anyone in the castle kept to the Seven but Sansa made sure to at least honour her lady mother’s faith by once a week lighting the candles to the Mother above. She used to favour the Seven herself before her father’s beheading but after that she saw little use for deities of any kind. To her now the Sept represented her mother; her clear soft singing and warm scented candles. Sometimes she saw Tyrion Lannister visit the Sept but his quick visits were always taken in the evening so he could be alone. She didn’t pry.

It was a cold snowy day and it felt odd to step outside without Sandor’s presence. He had become an accustomed presence at her side and rarely did she make a decision without first consulting him (unless he was off on one of his hunts). His role in Winterfell was primarily training up the new guards and scouting the surrounding areas for he had little knowledge of building. He had a say in almost everything that happened. She knew that Daenerys and Tyrion found his inclusion irritating and didn’t miss the way Tyrion’s mouth puckered whenever he gave his opinion, as though tasting something foul.

She passed the courtyard and paused only to watch Rickon hurl a snowball at Jeyne Pool who was trying unsuccessfully to pull him back inside. When she reached the Sept she ducked inside and lit candles to the Mother and Crone for her late mother and all the unwell in the castle. Several other people in the castle had come down with fevers and she hoped the Gods, or whoever else was watching over them, would be merciful.

When she emerged from the Sept the errant boy Luka was waiting with a message. “Some visitor arrived this morning,” he said, his teeth chattering. “Your presence is requested in the hall.”

The great hall was coming along brilliantly. Besides the shortage of merry laughter it was almost restored to its former glory. She and several of the women were working on a huge Direwolf tapestry that would soon hang from the wall behind the great seat. The silver haired Daenerys was already there waiting in beautiful robes of scarlet. She asked about her health before introducing their mysterious guest. The man looked to be around Tyrion’s age with greying dark hair and a smile that did not quite reach his dark eyes. His pointed beard was the same as it had been all those years ago. “Lord Baelish,” she greeted, surprised. “What brings you this far north? I thought you’d be busy in the Vale.”

“I thought to pay my respects to the queen in person. It is a fine treat to find her well and alive,” Littlefinger replied smoothly. “Much like yourself, my lady. You have grown into an exceptionally beautiful woman.”

“I thank you,” Sansa replied. She wanted to squirm beneath that gaze but instead she held herself still. She gathered up her courtesies and put on her accustomed armour. “I hope you mean to support our queen in the ensuring battle down south. Due to my aunt’s doing the Vale has so far stayed out of the fighting...I’m sure you have a great deal to offer in the way of men and supplies.”

Lord Baelish nodded, a wry smile on his lips. “Of course.”

“Then you are welcome here.”

Jeyne came forward to offer them a drink and Sansa didn’t miss the look of terror that crossed her face when she glanced up at Littlefinger.

Lord Baelish bowed and when he straightened up he was wearing a smile that seemed to be a thousand layers deep. He looked as though he was privy to some secret joke. He drifted back to Daenerys’ side and Sansa squeezed Jeyne’s hand briefly. As Regent of Winterfell ideally she should’ve welcomed him sitting in her father’s great seat but so far she had avoided that little honour. It didn’t feel right that she should sit in her father’s place. Besides, she was usually too busy with the restoration to play regent.

Tyrion Lannister came to her side and spoke quietly. “Be wary, Sansa.” He was watching the old Master of Coin with a look of distaste.

“His sigil should be an eel.”

The Imp chuckled. “That one is a snake. He has fangs should he wish to use them.”

Sansa was about to question him when a serving boy nervously begged her attention. “My lady, your brother’s just collapsed outside. He’s with the maester.”

Now _that_ was unexpected.

Sansa wasted no time in hurrying up the stairs to her brother’s bedchamber. Arya was already there and she was questioning Maester Samwell with a furious determination. Sansa approached the little figure lying on the bed and took hold of his clammy hand. She was instantly surprised by how sickly he looked.

Rickon’s chest heaved as he struggled for breath. His forehead was damp and there was a pool of sweat in the diamond of his neck. “Fever...” she whispered, her heart sinking with dread. She began tucking the blankets even more securely around him.

“He’s not strong, my lady,” Samwell ventured timidly. “I fear he’s been unwell for some time. I did try to keep him inside but the lad was - _is_ wild...The maesters of Oldtown call this sort of illness pneumonia.”

She tenderly pushed back the hair from his forehead and in the light she could pick out the strands of red in it. She thought of Robb, Bran and her mother, who all shared the same hair colour. All of them were dead now (or in Bran’s case lost without a trace). Sansa clutched his tiny hand to her lips, whispering every prayer she could think of. _Mother, Father, Warrior, Maiden, Crone, Smith...Give my brother the strength to get through this. He is innocent._

Innocent of the wars and the greed. Innocent to the very game of thrones.

Darkness fell and the castle slept. Sansa and Arya remained at Rickon’s side, whispering prayers and even singing him songs. Sansa wanted him to sit up and clamour onto her lap, pleading for stories and lemon cakes. Instead he lay very still, his eyelids fluttering. Samwell rushed between them and the library with new suggestions and tonics but no matter what they tried Rickon seemed lost to the world. Jon came as soon as he heard the news and stood at the end of his bed like a vigil knight.

“Not him. Please...I beg of you, Mother above,” she whispered. Arya was staring down at her hands and Jon remained silent, no doubt praying to his Gods of old. “Just this once. Answer me just this once.”

She started and dropped his hand.

He was no longer breathing.

_No._

“Rickon?” she said. “Please...open your eyes, sweetling. Please just open your eyes. It’s Sansa.” She gently cupped his face; he was still warm. “Jon? Jon, he’s stopped breathing!”

Jon felt for a pulse but Sansa knew it was too late by the way his face crumpled. Outside she could hear the howling of wolves. “He’s gone?” Arya whispered incredulously. “Rickon’s gone?”

He was tiny in death; their forgotten wolf pup.

The funeral was large event and Arya insisted it be held outside in the snowy Godswood. Daenerys herself attended, along with Stannis, Lord Davos, Ser Barristan, and Jorah Mormont. The lords gave her kind murmurs of sympathy but Daenerys actually went so far as to lean forward and kiss her cheeks. It was all a blur to her; she had to keep pinching her arms to make sure it was real.

“Light some candles. Don’t leave him down there in the dark...” she instructed a guard quietly and he bowed. Rickon would be buried in the family crypt beside the Starks of old. Already the bones of her father and brother were being sent north so they could all be put to rest. Together.

The funeral finished and the guests quietly departed. She reached for Arya and they clung together shamelessly like they were children. Their hopes of rebuilding Winterfell, of finding their family, of making a new life, were all dashed to ribbons. Misery seemed to curse them like a plague. Somehow she ended up alone in her solar, looking out of the window at the doors to the crypts. She hated the idea of Rickon being buried down in the dark but hoped he was with the rest of their family now. The idea of him joining their parents was so sweet that it made more tears fall from her eyes. Oh it just wasn’t _fair_!

She was sitting in her mother’s high backed chair. She’d been told about her mother’s last actions in life...of how she’d held a knife to Walder Frey’s grandchild in the hope of saving Robb. Sansa would have gladly ripped the throat out of any Frey in order to bring Rickon back.

The doors behind her swung open and Leah quietly came forward. She was wringing her hands and looking more than a little faint.

“What’s wrong?” Sansa asked. Her voice sounded hoarse as though she were coming down with a cold. The thought of anything else going wrong was rather laughable.

“I know it’s ill timed, but Jeyne’s waiting for you outside. With Sandor. Would you like me to get rid of them?”

“Jeyne and Sandor?”

“I fear...I fear the worst, my lady,” she said uncomfortably. She went to stand behind her mistress and gently squeezed her shoulders. “I’m sorry.” 

Sansa bid them come in and they stood together, side by side, like utter fools.

“Please say what you have to say and then get out. I have no wish to hear this now.”

Jeyne blanched. “I didn’t know...We didn’t know until we got here. I’m so sorry, Sansa...”

Sandor looked uncomfortable. _And so he should,_ she thought unkindly. He smelt like drink and dirt. “Sansa, this can wait. We had no idea...”

“Evidently.”

“We’ve eloped,” Jeyne whispered, hugging herself.

Sansa sat unmoved though she welcomed the feel of Leah’s grip on her shoulders. Somehow it anchored her in place. Sansa was sure that the news should’ve inspired some sort of emotion within her...but with one thing or another she just felt empty. “You have my congratulations. Now leave me, please.”

“We...we had to.”

Sansa turned her back and they were dismissed. She thought about collapsing before the fire but the coldness seemed to be steadying her. She was so tired. So achingly tired. That night Arya slipped into her bedchamber and the two sisters held each other, the darkness masking their red rimmed eyes.

 “Marry him,” Arya whispered. The youngest Stark girl was careful to smother her sobs with the blankets but even she couldn’t disguise the ache in her voice.

She didn’t need to ask who.

The following day she found him kneeling in the godswood before the weirwood tree, his dark head bowed as he dutifully prayed to his gods. For a moment she just stood still and watched. She felt as though she was interrupting something very private and wondered what he was praying for. Her Gods had long ago abandoned her but maybe his were still listening. _They can’t be – or else Rickon would still be alive._ Beside him sat Ghost and Shaggydog, the latter unusually silent now his master was gone. They both turned their heads to look at her and Shaggydog padded over. Now that Rickon was gone he seemed meek and lonely. He nuzzled at her hands expectantly, a whine at the back of his throat, and she gently stroked his head.

Jon looked surprised to see her outside and also anxious. She didn’t blame him; she could count the times they’d been alone on one hand.

“I sometimes wonder what Lady would look like now. Smaller than Ghost or Shaggydog, I think,” she said quietly. The Godswood was no place for loud voices. “With white fur and blue eyes.”

“You should be wearing a cloak.”

She didn’t even realise she was shivering. The lavender gown she was wearing was made from thin cotton which was useless at keeping in the heat. She couldn’t even remember putting it on. When he swung his black cloak around her shoulders she couldn’t help but think of the irony of what she was about to say.

“I want to marry you.”

Tentatively, as though fearing she would flinch from his touch, Jon reached out and tucked back one of her loose curls. His touch sent shivers down her spine but more from surprise than lust. They very rarely touched and if so it was usually by accident. “You’re grieving. I couldn’t take advantage.”

“I can’t lose any more. I just can’t,” she whispered. “All I have left is Winterfell. And you, and Arya. Marry me so that I can stay here for the rest of my days. In Winterfell...our _home_.”

“You could marry anyone. A Tyrell, a Martell...”

“I trust you. You are brave, gentle and strong...” Her voice gave out and she timidly placed her hands on his chest. Beneath his tunic he felt solid and unmoving. After a moment he covered them with his own and pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead.

“I remember a sweet girl who used to dream of shining knights. You sang about them to Rickon when he dozed on your lap. I would listen in sometimes from the hallway...until Lady Catelyn saw me,” he swallowed and she saw unshed tears in his eyes. “I would do anything you asked, Sansa...but not like this.”

He left her alone in the godswood with only long forgotten prayers for company. She remained there for a long time and listened to the rustling leaves, wishing that the wind might somehow blow her back to Braavos. Everything around her seemed be crumbling down. She couldn’t imagine it getting any worse.

Little did she know.

When they told her the news she calmly replied that they were mad. Her mother was dead, slain years ago with Robb, so there was no way she was at Winterfell’s gates.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angsttttttt.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor have an overdue confrontation

 

 

This _thing_ was not her mother. With every step it took Sansa’s heart hammered against her chest, beating at the same pace as her thoughts... _it’s not, it’s not, it’s not_. How she managed to muster such feelings she didn’t know. She watched, flinching, as this creature walked into Daenerys’ court in billowing robes of faded grey. Gone was the soft beautiful woman of her childhood; this creature looked like a living corpse. Its skin was cracked and ashen grey, its eyes blank and dead looking, and the neck below a slashed mess of dried blood. Her once shining auburn hair, the same hair that her father used to kiss and caress, was now brittle and snow white. The transformation reminded her of Theon Greyjoy and for that alone she hated it. This thing was an affront to Sansa’s memory of a kind and godly woman who used to tenderly brush her hair before the fire.

She expected the thing to reek of rotting flesh or disease but it had no smell. It was utterly vacant, drifting along as though floating.

The Hangwoman (or the Mother Merciless – she came with all sorts of names) came with a small retinue of grubby soldiers and sellswords called the Brotherhood Without Banners. Names were introduced but Sansa didn’t pay much attention. The tattered bunch had all sorts of faded house sigils half sewn onto their surcoats so they were obviously deserters. A tall man with curly brown hair and a lemon yellow cloak introduced the creature as Lady Stoneheart and even Daenerys shrank away from the horrifying sight.

“You can leave if you want,” a kindly voice murmured behind her. “This must be difficult.”

“Thank you, Ser Barristan, but this is not my mother.”

Sansa sat at the very back of the viewing gallery as she had no wish to be spotted by Lady Stoneheart or any member of her ragtag party. The idea of standing before her and peering up into that travesty of a face was enough to fuel nightmares. Arya had declined to even attend. Jon Snow stood beside Daenerys on the dais and he looked appalled.

The thing held a hand up to her neck and in garbled croaks seemed to speak. The cloaked man beside her nodded and relayed the message to the queen. “My lady wishes to see Lord Baelish.”

Lord Baelish? That thing wanted to see an old master of coin rather than her own daughters. Did she even know about Rickon’s passing? Did she even _remember_ him? _She doesn’t care about us anymore_ , Sansa realised. _She is beyond human emotion. An abomination to all that is good and loving in the world._

Fear turned quickly into disgust and she suddenly felt like retching. “On second thoughts I can’t stomach this.”

She gently declined his offer of assistance and hurried from the room.

She wanted that thing gone. As soon as its business with Littlefinger was concluded Sansa would request that the queen send them away immediately. However, she didn’t even get the chance to speak to Daenerys. The next morning the body of Peter Baelish was found lying face first in a pool of blood by his startled serving boy. There was no doubt as to who the culprit was, but Daenerys had a hard time in passing sentence. “ _She’s already dead_ ,” she’d said, bewildered. “ _How can I punish her more_?” In the end she demanded that Lady Stoneheart and her party leave Winterfell that very night or else suffer the fiery kiss of her children.

Littlefinger’s death had very little impact on the castle which was already deep in mourning for the little Lord of Winterfell. He had no family to speak of so his body was returned to the small coast of land called the Fingers with a letter containing the queen’s assured sympathy. Sansa, who had already withdrawn from her usual routine, was given a month free from her duties as Lady of Winterfell in order to mourn in peace. She spent the time stitching together robes of black velvet and even composed a short poem for the architects to engrave on Rickon’s tomb. She visited it often, bringing winter roses and fresh posies, and she was always accompanied by the hulking black Shaggydog. The direwolf rarely left her side now and she even permitted him to sleep in her chambers at night. He was all she had left of her little brother.

She ran into Jeyne once but words failed her and she quickly excused herself. Poor Jeyne, who had suffered more than most, didn’t deserve her resentment but she didn’t know what else to do. The hasty marriage was all the talk in the kitchens and Arya had raised an eyebrow in disdain. _“Jeyne Clegane?”_ she‘d scorned, _“What an idiot.”_

“Sansa...please,” the girl tried, but Sansa ignored her and hurried off.

She felt entirely alone and with little to do the days seemed to drag on. Arya in her grief took to riding out almost every day to explore the countryside and was very rarely home during the day. Jon was keeping his distance too; whether because he too was in mourning or because he feared his rejection had hurt her she didn’t know and did not care to find out. It was times like these that she sorely missed the plain speaking of Sandor.

One evening, towards the end of her mourning period, she decided that enough was enough. She felt a flicker of annoyance when she found him asleep in the stables, still clad in his rusting armour. He was dead drunk and smelt of sour wine, musky hay, and dirt. His fine black hair was plastered to his face with goodness knows what and drool congregated at the corner of his ruined mouth. Ever since his reappearance with Jeyne he’d gone out of his way to avoid her but she still heard about his activities through Leah. He’d started drinking heavily again, pinching from the wine stores without caring who saw, and he frequently stopped out in Winter Town to pester the brothels and Inns. It was like he’d transformed back into the Hound – into Joffrey’s Dog – and to see someone she loved fall so far was utterly heartbreaking to her. Not when he could be so much more. She carefully hung her lantern from a ceiling hook and picked up one of the horse’s water pails - before promptly tipping the contents over his head.

“ _Bastard_ ,” he swore as the icy water washed over him. He clutched his head and groaned.

“Get up,” Sansa commanded softly. “You can’t lay there on the floor all night.”

He picked himself up and she saw that he was splattered in mud. His brown cloak was partially torn and his armour was dangling from his chest unfastened. He was in one of the discarded stalls and had to cling onto the sides for dear life. The stables had been the first building to be restored due to its importance but it was already in need of a good clean. Sansa was wearing a mourning dress of black velvet and the hem was filthy.

“It’s none of your concern,” he muttered coldly.

“I’m the lady of Winterfell. This is _my_ stable, so it’s _my_ concern who sleeps here.” She found herself close to tears suddenly and in her frustration threw the bucket to the ground. “Why did you do it?”

She didn’t have to explain what “it” was. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“You don’t love her. I’ve never even seen you two speak.” It was difficult to say but she knew that this conversation was long overdue.

He seemed to be gaining control of his movements for he managed to face her. The un-burnt side of his face was grey.  “After your fucking declaration I went to the first bloody tavern I could find and drank myself blind. I paid for a couple of cunts before I even saw her. Quiet little Jeyne was sitting in the corner. She was crying and drunk. I drank more and woke up on top of her.”

“And then she married you – to protect her honour,” Sansa stated slowly. She’d suspected as much although that did little to numb the pain. “Where did you go?”

“Why do you care?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Fuck knows. I drank through the damn thing.”

“You’re a fool.”

His grimaced. “I am, aye. A huge fool. I always have been.”

“Don’t get all self-pitying. I won’t have it. Jeyne has had enough heartbreak in her life and you will not add to it,” she put her hands on her hips wearily. Jeyne had been tortured at the hands of her last husband and no doubt the emergence of Peter Baelish brought back horrible memories for her. It was he, after all, who had her whipped and sold her off to the Bolton’s.

“Don’t give me that,” he snorted nastily. “Don’t pretend to have her best interests at heart. You’re a cold-hearted bitch. You’re only acting this way because you’re jealous.”

 _He’s just trying to hurt me_ , she tried to tell herself but his taunting worked. “Why? Because I won’t jump into bed with you? You’re disgusting. I wouldn’t do that with anyone.”

“Don’t _lie_!” he rasped. “You lived in the most notorious brothel in all of Westeros. Swanning around in your flimsy fucking dresses and flirting with anything that moved.”

“You dare to question my chastity?” she asked incredulously, her eyebrows raised. She was fully aware that having lived in the Palace of Silk there would be implications about her honour, but any whispers were soon put to rest when they set eyes on her. She was so unashamedly virtuous it bordered prudery. She very rarely stepped out without a female escort. “I am the daughter of Catelyn Tully and Eddard Stark. I have never been touched in my life. The only man who tried to force himself on me was knocked out cold and left on the ground like a dog.”

He was looking at her intensely and she felt herself shake. His lips twitched. “Never?”

“Does that please you, Sandor?” Sansa knew she was taunting him but he just made her so infuriated sometimes. He was happy as long as she was still untouched, but if she’d given herself to someone else he would hate her and call her a cold hearted bitch. Her words tumbled out without a thought. “Does that knowledge make you happy? That I am still that innocent little bird you can keep safe for yourself? Will you pretend I saved myself for you?”

“Shut your bloody mouth!” He roared. In the candlelight his twisted face looked almost grotesque. “Don’t you dare play with me anymore. I’ve had it with your lies and games. I have killed men before, and women and children. I’m not afraid of anything. I am a murderer – pure scum. I have never pretended otherwise...but you have. You wanted so much to paint me as your bloody darling sworn shield that you ignored what was obvious. I have loved you from the moment I first set eyes on you.”

His grip was tight on her arms. He grabbed her fiercely and kissed her – his ruined mouth hard and cruel. She knew he was sobbing because she could taste the salt on his lips. Somehow she managed to wriggle free from his grasp.

“Don’t do that! I’m not some whore you can just dally with. I’m a Stark!”

“You were made for fucking, girl.”

He stepped towards her and she found herself backed into a wall. Her voice shook, “You’ve changed your tune. You told me once I would be a great lady...or was that just mere flattery? You made me believe I could do anything.”

_One day you will become a great lady but you'll have the heart and courage to be beloved. They'll love you..._

“Because I loved you.”

“Stop saying that. I was not yet two and ten years old,” she stressed. “That wasn’t love. You wanted redemption. Forgiveness. You thought I could give you that like we were some characters in a tale.”

The silence was almost painful. “You weave your magic over men and then draw away. You’re like her, you know. A conniving bitch with a sweet smile. You are just like Cersei Lannister.”

“I am nothing like her!” For the first time her voice raised to a shout. He’d struck a nerve.

“Stupid, _stupid_ , little bird.”

She struck him right across the snarling face.

He grabbed hold of her hand and held it tight. Far too tight. “If you hit me again, I will hit back. Harder.”

He was bluffing, and she knew that, but it silenced her all the same. The air around them almost crackled with tension. Sansa was holding her breath while her hand stung from the impact. The burnt side of his face was now flushed scarlet and he was crying freely. She regretted her actions almost instantly but there was nothing she could say to take it back. She nearly jumped out of her skin when a cold voice spoke up behind her.

“Unhand her.”

She spun around and to her horror and relief saw Jon Snow striding towards them. He’d obviously heard the shouting and come in from his watch to investigate. She’d never seen him look so angry and for the first time there was real fire in his otherwise cold grey eyes. He placed himself before her, ripping her hand out of Sandor’s grip. Heat was radiating from him. In that moment she could’ve easily believed he was a Targaryen. “You will not touch her again, Clegane.”

Sandor spat on the ground to show what he thought about his commands. “Don’t you shout orders at me, boy. I’ve been gutting men since before you could shit.”

“You threatened my lady cousin, Lannister cur.”

“What’s it got to do with you, oath breaker?”

With a metallic hiss Jon drew his sword and Sandor grabbed his own from the ground.

Sansa had seen Sandor fight a hundred times and knew that he was fearsome with a blade, attacking his opponents with an almost feral force, but while Jon was smaller in height he was also quicker and she knew Jon was just as ferocious when provoked. His spare hand, the one closest to her, was steady as a rock and his cheeks were red with passion. “I want no fighting!” Sansa demanded.

Her command made Jon hesitate, but Sandor used this to his advantage and aimed a furious swipe to his head. Jon raised his sword and deflected it easily, steel clashing, but Sandor began to press his advantage with a series of wild strikes. The stable wasn’t large and in their eagerness they became undisciplined, circling one another with no thought to their surroundings. Sansa had to scamper out of the way to avoid being trapped behind Jon. She watched breathlessly, clinging to one of the stalls, as her bastard cousin fought the infamous Hound. Jon managed to divert Sandor for long enough to disarm him and while Sandor fumbled for his grasp Jon kicked him to the ground.

She did not know if it was the drink but in his despair Sandor roared and charged at him, driving a fist into his stomach. Raw strength against steel. Jon doubled over and Sandor, pulling his head back by the hair, aimed a furious set of blows to his face.

Sansa hurried forward and grabbed his arm but he knocked her back as though she were a mere mite. She fell to the muddy floor, sobbing and shrieking at them to cease.

Jon’s poor face was covered in blood when Sandor stumbled back, his chest heaving. Jon shakily got to his feet but before Sansa could speak he grabbed hold of his sword and slashed Sandor right across the chest. Blood splattered across the hay and with a cry Sandor fell to his knees. Jon was above him in a dash, the tip of his sword against his neck.

Time seemed to stand still then. The two men were panting, their faces shining with sweat, but Jon seemed to waiting for something. She realised after getting to her unsteady feet that he was waiting for her order. She crouched beside Sandor and quickly assessed his wounds but saw, to her relief, that it was just a flesh wound. She put a hand on Jon’s arm and he immediately stood aside. “Thank you, Jon.”

Her voice shook as she addressed Sandor. “You will go to Jeyne and you will make things right. You will deal with the consequences of your actions. No more running, Sandor...” Running was all he knew. Whenever things got too daunting he would always disappear; whether to a distance land, or simply to the bottom of a wine skin. She had run with him once, but never again. From now on she would stay and fight her problems face first. “You will love her, for her sake and mine,” she added, in an almost whisper.

 _My poor ferocious Hound_ , she thought, but then realised that he was no longer hers. He was simply Sandor now...and that’s all he would ever be.

“Yes, my lady.” She watched as his shoulders drooped in assent and then gentle hands were leading her away. She felt the stares of a dozen servants who had worriedly followed Jon but she was too shaken to care. Jon led her carefully through the throng, his touch impossibly gentle even though a few moments ago he’d been ready to kill a man.

Neither of them said a word on the ascent and only when they reached the maesters solar did he question her. “What happened?” Maester Samwell quickly poured them a tonic of some kind and when she reached out for her cup she saw that her hands were still shaking. The maester obviously wished to stay and inspect them but Jon politely dismissed him. He lit one of the candles on the sideboard and when she saw the state of his poor face she felt an incredible rush of guilt.

“Oh Jon! Your poor face...” She burst into a fresh wave of tears.

He felt his face, flinched, and muttered, “a broken nose, I think.” He tried to wave it away but Sansa made him sit down and looked for something to tend it with. She softly dabbed at the blood with a wet clean cloth and in time her shakes resided. Doing something practical made her feel better and she almost forgot about his question until he prompted her.

“I lost my temper and said... spiteful things,” she replied truthfully, sighing. She swept back his messy hair in order to clean the blood from his brow. “I can’t ever take them back.”

“He loves you.” Jon didn’t sound surprised or irritated about the fact. If anything he spoke in a matter of fact sort of way, as though it was expected. His grey eyes followed her as she worked but she didn’t mind.

“He loves what I used to be. He thinks I can somehow make everything better for him.”

For a moment Jon just sat thoughtfully. He was wearing his black fur cloak, the same one he’d given her in the Godswood, and she saw that it was now splattered with mud. Her own dress fared little better and her hair was a tangled mess of knots and hay. “You should have a guard,” he said finally. “A new sworn shield.”

_I will have no more sworn shields._

Slowly she met his gaze and murmured, “I don’t want protecting, Jon. Not anymore.” Her words held a double meaning but he seemed to understand for he gave a flicker of a smile. It was a rare treat to see him smile and she thought he should do it a lot more as it brightened his otherwise sombre face. Robb would have seen it frequently growing up as they sparred and played together. So would’ve Arya.

“I wonder what the noise is about...” she asked, gesturing to the courtyard outside. Usually the castle would’ve been asleep by now but she could hear the chattering of hooves and cart wheels below.

“Daenerys has decided to leave soon. She thinks she’s imposed on our hospitality for too long.”

“Will you accompany her?” It was the closest they had come to speaking about his parentage.

He shook his head. “I belong here in the North. It doesn’t matter who my father was.” For a second she could’ve sworn he sounded annoyed. She finally finished cleaning his face and, after giving his nose a brief look, sat beside him.

“He loved you,” she assured him quietly. It was all she could give him. “So did our brothers.”

“You didn’t.” She blushed but he ignored it. Hesitantly, for they were always tentative around each other, he took her hand. He was wearing gloves but she could still feel the heat of his palm. She remembered his heat in the stables and how it seemed to roll off him in waves. “I’ve always understood. You were your mother’s daughter.”

Images of Lady Stoneheart came to mind and she shuddered. “I want that thing out of here,” she whispered, thinking about those dead blue eyes. “I hate it.”

“It’ll be gone by tomorrow morning,” he promised and she knew it would be so.

She thanked Jon for his interference and only when she was tucked up in bed did she think about Sandor’s tear stained face. She wondered where he was now. Had he gone back to Jeyne’s quarters? Was she tending to his wounds now, as she had done to Jon? She imagined those skinny white fingers cleaning his cuts and then gently putting him to bed...maybe she would even press a kiss to his forehead. The thought of their relationship was unsettling, but somewhere deep down there was also felt a tidal wave of relief.

Somewhere in the castle Sandor was being cared for. Jeyne knew just as many songs as she did and had just as kind a heart. She would make a good wife and could freely give him all the attention he craved.

Sansa reached out and beckoned to Shaggydog, who’d been dozing before the dying fire, and let him jump up onto the covers beside her. She felt so utterly alone in that moment and she pushed her face into the thick black fur of his neck. A few months ago he might’ve snapped at her but he seemed to be just as lonely as she and he whined sadly. “Family, duty, honour...” she whispered. “I have a duty.”

She thought about that thing that was now her mother. All it had left was despair and hatred. Would she too go mad with grief?

The next day she summoned Jeyne to her solar. The skinny girl curtseyed and flinched, looking as though she feared Sansa might scold her. Instead Sansa held out her hand and kissed her old friend on the cheek. The delight in Jeyne’s eyes was almost comical. “I’m sorry for the way I treated you,” she admitted quietly.

Jeyne nodded gratefully. “I understand. It was horrible timing...it’s just with Lord Baelish and everything...”

“No need to explain,” Sansa interrupted. “We were the best of friends once. I should be a fool to let this divide us.”

Jeyne held onto her hand and smiled. The tip of her nose was black due to frostbite but otherwise she was a pretty young woman. Sansa drew a small trinket from her pocket and offered it to her; it was Willas Tyrell’s seawater pearl comb. “A late wedding present. I expect he told you about last night,” Sansa added. “How is he?”

“Oh thank you, my lady! He’s fine. I cleaned and dressed the wound but it wasn’t as bad as it looked. He’s still asleep.”

“Good. Turn around and let me fasten it into your hair.”

Jeyne obeyed and Sansa gently tucked the comb into her light brown hair. “I wanted...I wanted to thank you, my lady. For whatever you said to him last night. He’s being kind to me.”

“As he should. Now, would you kindly run and fetch me Lord Lannister and Maester Sam? I need to send out a message.”

Jeyne once again curtseyed and hurried to the door. Before she left, however, she hesitated and Sansa saw an uneasy expression flicker across her face. “He calls your name in his sleep,” she admitted, her eyes glued to the floor. “I expect he always will.” The door swung shut behind her and Sansa put a hand to her forehead, wanting nothing more than to curl up in her bed.

Tyrion and Sam arrived shortly after and together they composed a message to be sent out to every holdfast and keep in the land, declaring the north’s firm support for Daenerys. It was the only thing Daenerys had asked of her and she thought it best to do before the queen left for the south. Saying goodbye the Targaryen queen seemed like a marked point in her life; that she should kiss the cheek of such a legendary figure and call her friend was something she’d never sought, but would never regret. She wished Daenerys all the luck in the world and promised to send down supplies as soon as the harvest was over. Daenerys looked at her then and gave her a sweet smile, “I hope to see you in King’s Landing once I’ve reclaimed my throne, Sansa. I’m glad to have met you.”

Tyrion Lannister would also be travelling south along with Stannis and the other lords who were all eager to reclaim their own birthrights, and Sansa found that she would miss the notorious Imp’s sharp tongue and intellect. She fell to her knees before him and placed a friendly kiss to his cheek. “Good luck, my lord. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“Until we meet again, my lady.”

The three of them, she, Jon and Arya, stood in the snow and watched the queen’s retinue leave. Above them in the sky flew three enormous shapes that shrieked and roared. Even Cersei Lannister would stand no chance against such terrifying beasts. Sansa watched until the last cart disappeared into the snow and only then did she let Arya pull her inside.  


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter folks!

 

She arrived like a princess, dressed in Myrish lace with fine Braavosi jewels gracing her creamy neck. She was painted up like a queen and the people of the north, from the Stony Shore all the way to the Karhold, came to watch her coronation. She was the very picture of a Tully but her firm hand and measured gaze was pure Stark. The people had already benefited from her leadership for since her return she had rebuilt Winterfell to its former glory and secured their borders. She had gifted them with two years of safety and peace. They were now entering the second year of the Long Winter; their stores were packed, their spirits were high, and they looked to her for guidance. The first few months in particular had been cruel; with every morning there seemed to be a new corpse to burn...some coated with frost while others were gnawed at by starvation...but they’d come through. The wars in the south were long over; the Dragon Queen sat on the Iron Throne and she sent her fond blessings.

Sansa knelt before the weirwood tree, its red face twisting grotesquely, as she made her vows. She promised to protect her people and to rule with a fair hand. She was given a crown wrought from iron, the very duplicate of her brother Robb’s and the kings of old, and it sat securely within her auburn curls.

There was to be a great feast afterwards, but instead she stole away to her late mother’s solar. She rarely got any time alone and so it gave her the chance to recollect over the previous months without anyone else butting in. She thought about her new life...about the bad and the good. She’d watched as the frozen corpse of a wildling babe was torn from its mother’s grasp and seen the savage glint in the eye of a man executed for consuming flesh. She’d ordered a man to be flogged for thievery and even banished a crooked merchant for cheating his clients. And yet there was goodness too, in so many little ways. For example she’d taken in dozens of orphans and watched as their pinched faces became round, and overseen a marriage between two lovers that would over wise be impossible. There would be many hardships plaguing her reign but on the other hand there would be many joys too. Their numbers were growing erratically, evidently the cold and the despair of the Long Winter brought people together more often, and so Winterfell was once again swarming with people.

Sansa was rarely left alone and the pain of losing Rickon had dulled to an occasional ache. She had Arya and Jon still and of course her faithful maidservants Leah and Jeyne. She had also taken Myrcella Lannister to foster, on the request of Deanerys who wanted her as far away from court as possible (Tyrion had sent Tommen back to Casterly Rock), and she was still the same sweet girl of her youth. They never spoke about the late members of her family and Sansa was determined to leave it in the past. She had beaten Cersei Lannister at long last...but the victory tasted bitter. She wondered if Tyrion felt the same way.

She pressed her forehead against the glass of the window and sighed. She heard the door behind her open and didn’t need to guess who was there.

“How did I look?” she asked quietly.

“Like a queen.”

Sandor was much the same as ever, though as promised he’d stuck by Jeyne. He sat beside her at meals and offered his arm when the ground outside was slippery...but they never danced or clasped hands. He treated her kindly, affectionately almost, but never once had she seen him brush back her tawny hair or kiss her cheek. Jeyne seemed perfectly happy with the arrangement and for that alone Sansa managed to stomach it. She’d offered to see them home to Clegane lands and pay for any restorations but they were determined to stay here in Winterfell, to her relief and sorrow. She didn’t ask why and she didn’t push it, though she knew one day Jeyne’s belly would start to swell and when that day came she wouldn’t know what to think. Her own belly remained flat and empty and she resigned to the fact that one day she too would marry...but not just yet. She disliked the idea of marrying any man, her trust in them was still raw and stilted, but she desperately wanted children. She wanted three little auburn haired boys she could name Robb, Brandon, and Rickon.

He stood behind her and she felt his breath on her neck. “They’re missing you.”

“The Battle of Blackwater was six years ago to this very day. It’s been six years since you stole me.”

She could’ve sworn she felt his hand brush against her waist but knew it was impossible. He never touched her now, not even by accident. It was a rule he lived by.

“Would you pass me my crown?”

She carefully put the crown back on and then checked her reflection in the looking glass. Her face stared back, blank and full of worry, and she pinched her cheeks to create some colour. It should have been a day of celebration but all she felt inside was a daunting dread. Her shoulders felt heavy under the weight of her vast responsibilities. She loved Winterfell and its people and would never abandon them, but sometimes she wished she could sail away back to Braavos and live without a care in the world.

“It wasn’t a lie, was it?”

She looked at him, her hands hesitating by her sides. “No.”

It was all she would say. All she _could_ say now.

He was no longer her Hound and she was no longer his Little Bird. She had severed those ties for both their sakes.

“I used to know what you were thinking...” he muttered. “Always. Even if I didn’t like it.”

“No more?”

He smiled grimly. “You’ve outgrown me, your grace.”

Her smile was bleak but her courtesies, as always, were polished to a perfect gleam. She swept down to the great hall and on the way passed by Winterfell’s servants, who cheered and shouted blessings. She’d just reached the great hall when she was petitioned by one of the kitchen maids. Jon and Sandor were waiting for her by the doors but nevertheless she paused kindly.

“Happy tidings to you, your highness,” the woman curtsied, blushing to the roots of her hair. Her dress was frayed at the cuffs but her eyes were full of life. “My daughter’s just birthed a beautiful baby girl. She’d like to name her Sansa, if it please you.”

The impact of her words crashed over Sansa like a bucket of cold water. To hear this woman, who had survived both Theon and the Bolton’s, ask for her blessing felt sweeter than anything in the world. To hear her say “if you please” as she had once done to please Septa Mordane... That phrase had been her armour down in King’s Landing and now it was being used to her. Sansa had to blink away a sudden rush of tears and, to everyone’s surprise, leant forward to kiss the woman’s cheek. “It pleases me very much. Thank your daughter for me.” A babe, a beautiful little girl named Sansa, would truly gladden her heart. She felt humbled.

Jon held out his arm and she took it appreciatively, still beaming at the woman’s kind gesture. It was just the thing she needed to raise her spirits. Jon was dressed in his usual black attire and refused to wear the costly scarlet cloak Daenerys had made for him. He’d visited the capital twice now, each time returning with fresh news and complaints, but he only really seemed comfortable here in the cold. He escorted her through the doors and the hall erupted in an explosion of cheers and music.

Her people were a loud coarse bunch, but they were also honest and warm. She proudly stood before them on the dais and commanded them in a carrying shout to break open the casks of ale. The high seat stood empty behind her and she hesitated before sitting down. The wood felt hard against her back but she hoped she would get used to it. She felt a flicker of emotion when she thought about her lordly father and how he would look so solemn and grave when he took this seat. It was a seat for duty, not pleasure. From her high position she watched the feasting crowds below and accepted a goblet of ale from a visiting lord.

Arya was sitting on one of the closest benches, dressed for once in a gown of soft grey. She was now technically a princess but nobody dared call her it to her face. Beside her sat a strong young man with jet black hair who she recognised from the armoury. Leah informed her under her breath that his name was Gendry Rivers and that he and Arya were currently – for lack of better words - fucking. Sansa laughed at that and watched her sister with a secret smile.

Later she danced with all who asked. Bold northern lords vied for her attention and she listened politely, but it was obvious she had eyes for no one in particular. She danced once with Sandor and twice with Jon.

Perhaps one day she would ask him to marry her again. Perhaps she wouldn’t. Perhaps she’d marry no one. All she knew was that if she had to marry someone it would be him. She wondered what he’d say to that.

She sat back down on her seat, panting after a particularly fast paced dance, and Leah sat by her feet. She squeezed her hand, grinning, and Sansa fondly stroked her hair. “The seat suits you.”

She dearly hoped so.

Thus began the reign of Queen Sansa, the first of her name.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally cannot believe I'm finished. I've been writing this fic for over a year now on FFnet so it's a bit emotional... I apologise if it didn't turn out how you might've liked, but I'm happy with it. Thank you to everyone who commented and gave me such lovely support! Love to you all...


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